X-COM: Enemy Unknown - From the Eyes of the Raven
by xbriannova
Summary: A Singaporean CID detective who thought he could no longer be surprised was surprised by the entrance of two strange agents speaking of a 'UN Task Force' approaching him. Little did he know that he would soon play a role not in defence of Singapore's streets but of the entire world. Be advised: Rating will change as and when it the story crosses that hurdle.
1. Chapter 0 (Prologue): Suits

Chapter 0 (Prologue): Suits

The mug of coffee I took a sip from tasted like a rubbish chute, but it was fragrant compared to what was outside. Singapore's been growing old as the 21st century wore on. It'd sprouted white hair by now since celebrating its 55th birthday—it was obvious from the odd cracks and lack of paintjobs on her buildings here and there. Now in the final days of 2019, crime had risen to its new pinnacle ever since the resumption of aggressive immigration programmes in 2015. Little did the white blood cells of the Lion City realise that it had invited in some criminal elements, some with connections to the Chinese Triads and the Japanese Yakuza, along with many other lesser known, but more dangerous groups. They were eager to sink their claws into the filthy rich old woman like conmen prowling the streets with magic pendants, and boy did they.

It was pouring outside of the police headquarters, outside in the streets. It was the monsoon at its fiercest. It seemed like the queen of all storms, one made worst by the global warming, a storm that seemed like it would never end until a few years later. It howled outside, shuddering the windows to my air-conditioned office, begging to be let in, and howling that it would break in if not. I kept my trench coat on despite being dry and indoors. What was essentially a tropical winter was forcing a ton of steel on the temperature in the office. Glancing at the thermostat, I realised it had dipped to 16 degrees even though the air-conditioner was set to 21 degrees. It mattered little. I was used to the coldness of the world—it simply could not get any worse than how it was.

"Mr. Zhua Ta Yong? Raven, I believe?" Someone called for me, sounding like he was about a metre from my cubicle. He pronounced my name in a horrendously wrong way. He sounded like one of the many ang-mohs, or red-hairs designating westerners who were Caucasians, who migrated over to Singapore to escape the great financial crisis ruining the economy of Europe and the USA. It was supposed to be Chua Da Yong, Raven. Hearing the stranger's mistake pissed me off, as it reminded me of how American and European mobs had made Singapore their new frontier as well.

Looking up from my standard issue data pad, I stood up to regard my new acquaintances, which was when I realised they weren't the usual crowd. Normally, I would get businessmen seeking to protect their company and wanted the job done quickly, or I would get Triad members trying to sell out another criminal group. This time, it was a pair of no-nonsense ang-mohs in immaculately washed and ironed business suits and what felt like at least government-level bearings. I was no rookie in the police force. I glimpsed a faint shadow of a holster hiding inside their jackets, and something bulging around one of their armpits. I could almost, as if telepathically, feel the weight of some hidden communications devices on them, "Inspector Raven Chua Da Yong, yes, and what's your case this time?" I decided to play dumb along the way first, let them do the driving while I enjoy the joyride.

"We have a… sensitive matter to discuss with you." One of them—they both looked alike—said in a quiet, but clear voice, as if afraid that the entire room was full of the Italian mob. I waved a hand at one of the interview rooms and lead them into it. Before getting in, however, either to practically ensure there were no listening devices of both the natural or artificial kind or to act professional, one of them probed the walls outside of the room. After getting in, it was the one who spoke to me's turn. I felt vaguely that I was in trouble—A new development in criminal operations? After all, I did help to solve a few cases, tipping a few upstart mob gangs over, who, of course, as luck would have it, had alliance and ties with other surviving gangs, many others. My aging H&K USP pistol felt all the more prominent when it shouldn't have—it was a slow day in the office.

When we finally got seated, the lead business suit started talking, but not before taking a final look around rather stiffly, presumably for listening devices once again. I had a sudden epiphany that they could be crackpot conspiracy theorists who'd been let in by accident by the desk sergeant. Besides my day job as the slayer of upstart mobs, I wrote a few fun books going deep into the local ghosts and supernatural lore based on some deep research I started as a hobby. It's kept me out of a film noir plot so far, as my royalties earned made living very comfortable even compared to the senior, senior police officers, allowing me to focus more on the job, "Mr… Chua. We represent a certain… Interest on the international stage." His vague speech was pissing me off.

"Could you be a little more detailed than that?" I said, allowing a bit of a leeway to express myself, "if you want your business protected or something, you need to throw me a little more than that." I was still playing blind and bogart.

"It has nothing to do with… business, as you call it. As I said, it has… more to do with the international stage. We speak on behalf of-" Mr Lead Business Suit paused and looked around to his colleague, as if communicating via some subsonic Morse code to one another. They were silent, but Lead Business Suit seemed to be searching for advice in the Other Business Suit's face. They seem to understand each other pretty well.

"We speak on behalf of the UN, and a certain… task force it has formed to combat an arising… global threat." Mr. Other Business Suit said, leading me to believe that they were trained specifically to punctuate their sentences regularly with… pauses. By this point I could not help but to be sceptical. My pistol remained heavy, begging me to draw it out. My right hand twitched a bit as I leaned back to take in what the most recent speaker said. Somehow, despite my iron resolve to keep my face inexpressive, they saw through my scepticism. They showed me their passes and produced their own pad, a light show that I had to mention. Upon being placed on the table, it projected a holographic screen almost vertically to face me, showing me a contract that appears impossible to counterfeit. It contains confidential details that included my employment history, operations history and personal statistics. I could only gape in wonderment and vaguely, violation.

"I guess we've convinced you. Two other… agents outside will escort you to your home to pack up and-" Without even waiting for my signature, Mr Lead Business Suit said, pissing me off yet again.

"Hey! Just… Just stop! I didn't agree to anything!" I said, this time allowing myself even more leeway to express myself. Normally, I would play the game more tactically, but after the light show, I felt my claws snipped away, my mouth defanged.

"That is… immaterial. You have been drafted into the UN task force by order of the… UN Secretary-General. Your… government has been informed, as the Singapore Police Force, CID and your family are. You may review their… paperwork later." If there was a competition between me and the two suits in the make-the-other-quiver-contest, I'd clearly lost. While their shades and mask-like faces hid everything, I could almost smell a sense of victory in them thanks to my police training and experience. My journey through the supernatural world helped too. I could only do nothing but stare at their titanium visages—nothing could be harder than their titanium faces.

"You've talked to my wife?" I could only assumed so, considering the show they'd already put on already, which was far more credible than the National Day Parade, far more exciting than NDP that my heart was ready to pop out of my chest or up my oesophagus and into my mouth. I hadn't felt much excitement for months that I came pretty much as a shock.

"We had to… meet Elizabeth at your home to… convince her of the same thing we are telling you now." Mr Lead Business Suit said, and continued, "Sign the contract at your leisure before taking your plane, Mr… Chua. Do so only with the… permission of one of us. Now… Please follow the agents outside this room."

I went out—and the two enigmatic suits did not follow. Apparently, they were either chit-chatting about cupcakes, daisies and god-damn UFOs (might as well), or they had other matters to attend to around the area, or the whole city for all I knew. Outside, there were another two suits, one of them an African (or African-American) fellow a few heads taller than me, and a Chinese guy who could easily blend into parliament's security force easily. "Follow us." African Suit said—by then I knew him to be African from his thick accent, "Do not talk to anyone. Do not stray anywhere. We will catch you back."

After taking my fedora hat, an accessory that was becoming popular with the detectives of Singapore as it was back in 60s USA, via the initial introduction to the civilian market earlier in the century, I left with the suits. Before I left the lobby, the superintendent of the station said his farewells to me. From the look of his face, he must have known about all this, saw it in his emails. I felt another wave of paranoia travelling down my spine. I thought I had made paranoia in me impossible years ago, but I was wrong.


	2. Chapter 1: The Send Off

Chapter 1: The Send Off

After getting out of the police headquarters building, I could not tell which vehicles were theirs until it was pointed out to me: two ordinary looking black jeeps, each included with an agent in a suit, a standard package. They appeared sleek and sexy as those jeeps for the civilian market, but there was an aura of hidden resilience about the vehicles. I was waved into one of them and they opened the door for me. From the way he was putting some strength into the door, I could tell that it was reinforced with armour—it was a little thicker than usual too. They weren't kidding at all about representing the United Nations and their little task force.

As I was being transited back home to the north, Woodlands, I tried brainstorming for a way out of my draft, but every way I turned, there was no way out. Everyone from the UN down to my family would not have the authority to repeal my draft. They'd all signed their part. Then something came to me, a sudden switching on of a light at midnight, "how am I qualified to be in this task force?" I suddenly said, making sure that each and every word that came out had a purpose, that each of them was attached with a tone that mattered, "I'm just a simple detective from a peaceful little island." Or rather, peaceful compared to the war-torn poverty ridden states in the U.S and Europe, "if it's a task force, like some hard-core military force to fight a global threat, terrorism or something, you should be looking into Singapore's guardsmen and commandos, not me, right?"

"You are too… humble." Chinese Suit said. Looking around at African Suit, they communicated in their secret subsonic channel. It seemed to me like there was more to be said, and I wasn't disappointed. Sure enough, they had seen right through my intentions, like a cruise missile piercing right into a brick building before exploding within.

"Your record indicates that you are amongst the… best Singapore had to offer. You were in the military as a… Guardsman as you called them. Unlike the majority of the… 'soldiers'-" I did not like his downplaying of the Singapore military—I knew a lot of good men and women inside—but I had no choice but to accept his poor judgement of Singapore's military, "-you have seen combat in the middle east."

"Yeah, but that was some… 7… 8 years ago!" I continued with my bright idea to dodge the draft, but it was starting to look dim. In fact, it looked like it could black out any moment. The prospect of living a normal (inasmuch as a detective could live a normal life) life in my home country would easily then disappear with the light.

"We are… confident that you will have no problem despite your retirement from the military. As the records show, you were just as… prolific in your police career." Chinese Suit said, and the lights had gone out largely, but not completely yet. I was desperate to get out of this business, which seemed to me shady at best. If there was one thing you learn being in both the military and police, and being an officer-level person in both, it was that the higher you climb, the shadier you would have to operate. The suits were asking me to take a rocket from ground level to space—it was a shock to my system to handle the shadiest of the shadiest all of a sudden. I was one of those who needed gradual conditioning, who needed to go from the Wright Brothers to Neil Armstrong all over again.

There was one final plan B for my bright idea, "Sure, I'm 'prolific in my police career', but aren't there plenty of pure military geniuses out there?" I said, allowing myself a wide berth to express my frustrations with a bit of sarcasm. It would be a luxury that cannot be missed.

"We need a wide range of… Talents, law enforcement included, as per our… operational requirements. Your record shows you to be… innovative and as they put it… 'Dynamic'." Chinese Suit countered with a trump card. The card game was theirs. The light's out, and I was resigned to pulling out the holographic pad they gave me and sign the holo-contract. At the very least, the light effect never got old—where I am going, there would be more of it.

"Isn't it a security risk that you're telling me all this now?" It was no desperate measure to dodge the draft—I had already been verbally beaten into submission, "I could have run, rejected outright no matter the consequences."

"No, you could not run, nor reject the draft." The African Suit finally spoke after a time on the side bench, his grasp of English good, but somehow uncanny in some way. He was riding shotgun, and had to turn around to drill his eyes into mine—although he wore shades like the rest, I could feel the laser from his eyes, strong and deadly. I couldn't even think of arguing with his line of reasoning.

When I got up to my HDB (Housing Development Board) apartment, which was a five-room wonder, my wife was at the door, knowing full well when I would come home to the minute, it seemed. I had two kids—a daughter and a boy. Remembering their names hurt, now that I had to leave them for a task force that I knew nothing about. With two suits by my side, the life seemed drained out of me—they operated like necromancers, and I felt like their walking corpse servant. For some reason, I could not feel the need to hold them any longer, nor kiss and hug my wife. I went straight on into the master bedroom, started packing, reassuring my wife on the side.

I couldn't even pack the way I used to. The suits had a packing list for me. A maximum of 10 sets of civilian wear. A maximum of 8 sets of uniform, whichever service I was in. It included the shoes, if I had that many. Apparently, my uniforms would be of some use in this 'task force' I was drafted for, though I knew nothing of what it was. Maximum 10kg of personal effects allowed, right down to the grams. Apparently there was no need for toiletry items.

Before I leave however, I requested some time with my family, to discuss things, arrange the essentials. Elizabeth Chua was a strong woman who worked in fashion design, and was still going strong in that department even after having two children, one after the other within the year.

We gathered into a parlour of sorts, which had half its walls fitted with windows—I don't know what else to call it, and sat around a coffee table, on sofas curving about in modern designs, though not as modern as the holographic pad I was handed. The agents were waiting outside. The last time I saw them before closing the wooden door, they were still as statues, just standing guard outside like cursed Egyptian monuments. I could sense their dissatisfaction even when they expressed nothing but a stone wall. At the very least, they took off their shoes when they entered—I was expecting them not to oblige on grounds of combat readiness or something to that effect.

There was silence for a while after we sat down. In a way, we were all shocked. We were content, heck, happy with the way things were. After a funeral minute, my wife decided to speak up eventually, "we'll miss you." At that instant, she reminded me of a caged sheep, quite the opposite of the raging bull she was, as masculine as that sounds. Her words, however, had the effect of bringing me back to life. It was then that I was reminded that whatever words spoken would be our last before I set off to God-knows-where.

"Take care of the kids for me, Liz…" I said, feeling stereotypical with the clichéd words I spoke. I leaned back, thinking hard, trying to penetrate the roadblocks the agents had put on my regular senses, "I'm going to miss taking shifts with you." I felt a little better after saying that—indeed, we used to plan our schedules feverishly so that someone would be taking care of the kids. It was near-impossible and hectic, especially considering that I was quite a workaholic, one of the things that Elizabeth hated about me.

My daughter came over and jumped onto my laps for the last time, and the boy followed suit and came to sit beside me, "we could take care of each other, papa."

"I betchu can." I said as a comfortable laugh escaped my lips—they were never intentional. I ruffled my boy's hair some, "by the way, if you have to, Liz, get a stay-home job. Design through the net or something." I wanted to mention quitting work entirely, but Elizabeth would have torn me apart there and then in front of the kids—she could never give up her life's work entirely. I was a workaholic only because she had yet to match my records so far.

"Rave, that's the thing. It'd be tough! Stanson'd cut my salary right down the middle!" She objected, quite naturally—she was a career woman first and foremost. I was already lucky she sounded moderate, unlike the last time when she listed a thousand and one reasons not to work from home that had a lot to do with workplace competition and career nuances.

"Did I mention that my new employers are paying me 50,000 a month in basic pay? In U.S dollars?" I paused for a moment to let the figure sink into Elizabeth's somewhat masculine, career brain. I could already tell that she was planning something, career or family wise. Maybe a condominium and her own business, "That's on top of my salary here—contract states that the government's paying while I'm gone. Then there's all those insurance plans. I'm going to have a new one where I'm going, so if the going's too tough for me, you'd have… How much was it? A million U.S dollars to cover-"

Before I could finish my explanation, Elizabeth had joined the kids and embraced me. I could sense vibrations in her, and I knew she was confused, unsure of whether to jump with joy at the figures I mentioned or to bawl like the girl I used to know at the prospect of me going to some foreign lands to put my neck on the chopping board. The latter was all too severe—with the economy in shambles, there was plenty of need for the UN to send down peacekeepers into Europe or the U.S to assist in law enforcement. For all we knew, I was going down the same path, though the handsome salary I was being handed freely and casually seemed to point me towards a more obscure path, towards a rarely (if at all) trodden path into an unexplored black forest.

When we looked eye to eye again, I noticed streaks of tears down her puffy cheeks. While she was not super-model beautiful, it mattered little. Her love for me had won out against her fashion and maternal side. For her, I knew, I would hold my ground as long as I could to keep that 50,000 streaming into the family back account. From her tears, slick as a golden road, I knew I could trust her to make the right decision with that amount.

Instinctively looking back, I realised that Chinese Suit was peeking into my parlour impatiently. It felt illegal. But I understood his gesture and Easter Islander face. It was time. Gently pushing my wife to sit down and compose herself, I stood up, shining under the ceiling lamp like a classical hero, though that was pushing it. I felt like just a guy pushed into one circumstance after the next, "Take care of each other." I was playing with the silky hair of my daughter for the last time—she was hugging my leg, crying. My boy was hugging the other, nodding with as much understanding as a boy of 8 could muster, "This could end in a month or a year, but…" I knew it would veer towards the latter, and I knew not to make promises, which leaves my sentence vacant. I had to improvise, which was hard, as the dam behind my eyes were starting to overflow, "take care of each other." My wife came to me again, no more in control of the situation than my children were. We hugged one last time, shared a kiss.

I left soon afterwards. The suits redeemed themselves by allowing my family to send me off as they drove me and their black jeep away, near the void deck on ground level. I was constantly looking back and waving. I was 35, but I felt like 5 and 65 simultaneously.


	3. Chapter 2: Reunion

Chapter 2: Reunion

When I was at Changi Airport, pulling my luggage about, I was expecting to get on a regular plane, but just when I thought the normal and mundane was about to reassert itself again, for good, I was wrong yet again. After ditching my luggage for the service staff to handle my two escorts lead me away from the public terminals, and towards the private jets area of the airport. The usual routine was a scan using a metal detector, but there was a catch—I was never allowed to relieve myself of my USP pistol! Nervously, I triggered the archway, which was when the agents, previously detrimental to my mental health, came to my rescue, flashing their passes and a firearms permit they had long prepared for me. They passed through without trouble—the detector was switched off for them. They didn't need permits.

Soon, I was met with the mouth-breath of the storm once again, having been led out onto the tarmac and towards a fast-looking private liner. It was still raining as if the sky was about to fall, so the staff of the private jet had to fetch us with their wide, black umbrellas. Otherwise, it was a short trip on foot.

I had assumed that I was the lone ranger, as I normally was in recent years, but apparently, I was not the only fellow in Singapore who couldn't dodge the UN draft. There was another two, but the room we were shepherded from was too dark for me to make them out. No, it was not far too dark, but they had led me to the plane far too quickly for me to take a good look at them. All I know was that there was a guy and a girl, both in green.

It was only when we were finally in the light once again and clear of the dreadful storm that I saw their faces—and they were people I knew, people I worked with before, back when I was in the same uniform as them. The man was a buddy of mine right from the beginning of my military service. We went through BMT together, and got posted to the same few units together. We both became specialists, part of the WOSPEC corps, and we became guardsmen together. We went to Iraq together, watched each other's backs while we were in free fire zones. I was discharged from the service when I was staff sergeant. I noticed his rank. He had become a master warrant officer with his three inverted chevrons on his chest. Due to my change of career, I became inspector, far below him even if we were of the same age. I started from the bottom of the police force as a corporal and fought with teeth and claws upwards ever since. I still remembered his name: Mohammad Faizal.

As for the girl, she was a guardswoman we met in Iraq. We were part of the same unit. While we all remained queasy about fighting a real war, the entire Singaporean military being largely inexperienced, this Indian woman who would strike fear in the thuggees of old India was actually enjoying it as part of the job, just as she enjoyed serving in the military during peacetime. She actually kept scores, and was enthusiastic on the field. She celebrated her kills and victories during happy hours back then when most of us were watching with horror the faces of the insurgents we had killed in our glasses of Tiger beer. She was a 3rd Sergeant the last time I saw her. She had risen to the rank of staff sergeant, my old rank. I still remembered her name: Aahila Singri.

We were all surprised, almost shocked to see each other once again in such an unpleasant circumstance. Our old instincts from back in the Iraq clean-up operations were reawakened once again. We greeted each other lethargically. Even when I clearly remembered their names down to the letters, my mouth would not move, not properly. When we were shown to our seats in the first class cabin, the only class in the private jet, we sat down facing each other across a clean, white table (first class was an understatement. We might as well be in a presidential jet), our faces still scrawled all over, vandalised with surprise and confusion.

"They recruited you guys too for the 'UN taskforce'?" I asked, rather dazed. The lights were casting shadows over their faces. It was reaching night time, not that it mattered. The whole day had been night, what with the unceasing storm. They nodded at first, silent and just as dazed as I was, and that was saying a lot, especially considering Aahila, who was a hardened warfighter, if Singapore had one.

"Yeah, straight away, they didn't even go through my CO. They just came straight for me. Crazy." Faizal repeated what was essentially my story. I knew what he meant—sure, our bosses may not, but it seemed as though they were subordinate to some order far higher than the frickin' 3-star general in charge of the entire Singapore military.

"Same here." Aahila said, and the story was made a full circle, "Did they mention who're we killing this time?"

"A kind of 'global threat' apparently, and I doubt they were referring to their speech patterns and vagueness." I replied, quite confident that they knew what I mean, based on what we had in common so far in how we were recruited. There was no more doubt in my heart that we were not being trafficked into Africa to be forced to fight for some warlord or other. In Aahila's case it would have been far worse.

"Alamak- I was hoping for something out of you," Faizal remarked, disappointed that his gambit at some scrap of hope for decent information was quashed. While I was regarded as the determined, get-it-done type, the man who suffered through everything and came out alive not necessarily with skill and talent, Faizal was visionary, the outstanding charismatic leader while Aahila was… the vicious and enthusiastic type, and very skilled at what she did.

"Anyway, how long has it been Raven?" The subject was finally changed, courtesy of Aahila, the enthusiastic type who flew into the opportunity, "Good to see you again." At this, I smiled at her my response.

"Yah! Why was it that you quit again?" Faizal continued the conversation down the same tangent. While it was an open-wound issue back then, the scab was long gone and over it was scar tissue, "we could have stayed together if you didn't you know."

"Well, let's just say I have a wife and kids to look out for. Joining the police puts me closer to home. I knew they'd send us out there again. Did they?" I was glad I could divert the limelight to them at this turn. The scar tissue, even though hard and tough, was still a bad reminder of an old career lost to the innocent passage of life.

"Actually ah… You're right. Like Singapore got drunk on fighting wars. We were both sent to Europe to help with their domestic terrorisms." It sounded bad. I was not normally an expressive person, but being with my old friends might have softened me up like a tenderised steak, as Aahila noticed my reactions and quickly sighted my train of thoughts.

"It's not that bad really. We got a few kills, but Iraq was worse." Aahila fixed my wrong judgements, never failing to wedge in a brag or two. To a complete stranger, Aahila would seem like an immature kid who happens to be a soldier or at most a sociopathic psycho, but to me, it was endearing, all over again. Aahila's review of the European Terror Crisis was met with Faizal's nod of approval, "we get to shop once or twice even." That was pure, undistilled Aahila, lumping the business of state-legitimised killing and opportunistic tourism together.

When the presidential private jet finally got moving, it seemed to do so with an enthusiasm that matched Aahila's. The preparations seemed to be faster, and it ran down the tarmac in a hurry, as if eager to fulfil Aahila's passion for law-abiding killing. It likely had listening devices wired to an AI system a century ahead of all known science—I wouldn't put it past the agents to say that. Speaking of the devil, as our one-way-trip to God-knows-where was beginning, Chinese Suit and African Suit was making their way down an aisle. They sat down and buckle in by the window, just beside us. The effect they had on me at my own home was doing the same thing to the three of us, so we kept quiet and buckled up as they did.

The private jet took off—and boy did it take off. There was a sudden blast of energy. I could hear the jet engines guzzling down fuel like an obese drunkard pouring glasses of beer straight into his stomach. This obese drunkard happens to compete in 400m dashes, and won. I could feel the Gs as the plane accelerates, take off into the air. It was about as close to piloting a fighter plane as it could get, at least to me.

The trip did not take long, or at least that was what was told to me by Aahila, who was the only one awake between the three of us. I had fallen asleep without knowing it, and so did Faizal, as if the cabin was gassed with anaesthetics, but at least for me, I knew mental and emotional exhaustion acted as my anaesthetics. I was forced to part with my family on short notice, forced to take in so much information at one go, even by my standards. Something tells me that it was the same for Faizal, and Aahila was lucky in this way. Although she was at the right age to start a family, she didn't, having already married herself to her rifle and uniform. In fact, there was something in her eyes that told me she had been waiting impatiently for the destination, a kid eager to get to her amusement park. To her, there were cotton candies and balloons on the other side when all I saw was a maximum-security prison with a thousand clone agents guarding it.

The only real reason why I willingly committed was for my family—running away would only leave my wife a widow and children orphans, as well as a shitload of preparation to make for a funeral. Not running away meant that 50,000 more. Converted to Sing-Dollars, it would be about 60,000, though the U.S dollar had weakened considerably, and will continue to weaken. In fact, there was talk of the world switching to the Chinese Ren Ming Bi.

When we got out of the plane, we found ourselves to be in the middle of nowhere. The only clue was the savannah the base was in—it was either somewhere in Africa, or I was hopelessly mistaken. Otherwise, I wouldn't put it pass our dearest 'UN taskforce' to disguise our surroundings, using a larger-scaled holographic projection, though it's probably my conspiracy-sense going on overdrive.

The base had its own take-off and landing strip and hangers. There was a large central building, helicopter pads, and several other structures that could be an armoury, barracks, others. They were all built with dull concrete and steel, covered over the top with camo-nets. There were UN peacekeepers patrolling, standing guard—I knew their affiliations from the characteristic sky-blue helmets with the UN crest on it. Otherwise, they were wearing desert camouflage of the digital design, optimised such that the peacekeepers looked like floating UN-heads in the dark, unless you looked a little harder. Somehow or rather, it all appears underwhelming, unless it was all a holographic projection hiding the real deal underneath. My conspiracy-sense kicked in even harder, this time for real, and it was telling me that there was more to it than this_. Never trust the surface, hobo_, my conspiracy-sense said confidently.


	4. Chapter 3: Backstage

Chapter 3: Backstage

Me, Mohammad Faizal and Aahila Singri were lead down the plane by Chinese and African Suit, down to the landing strip. The tarmac felt underwhelming, yet I could sense electric underneath it somehow, like there was more to it than the ground. Passing by hangers, I counted private jets. We were quiet anyway, all of us, even the agents. There were five small hangers, and four more jets in storage. They were running a serious operation down here in Africa (as I believe). They could bring in a few more hundreds of us if they could; it was only the question of whether they had already done so or not.

After clearing the landing strip, we began taking a turn and heading towards the general direction of the central building, which was likely an administrative and storage facility. The barracks, which looks like a series of giant tubes half out of the ground, was likely our destination. We were signed up for a 'UN Taskforce', after all. As we were on our way, I took a better look around—the perimeter was protected by fences and watchtowers, with sandbags and guardhouses at every entrances. Sky-blue helmeted soldiers patrolled the perimeter like clockwork ants, while those standing guard were statues that move only when no one's looking.

Then we turned away from the barracks, and towards the largest entrance of the central building, which was guarded by a squad of soldiers hunkered down behind walls of sandbag. They all looked similar, especially from a distance, as if they were all cloned from just two persons: Joe and Jane. From here on in, it was a complete mystery to me, our actual final destination, unless we were supposed to fill in some forms or get issued equipment.

We approached the main entrance of the central building. It was a gate, a large, heavy metal double-gate that made the central building less and less likely to be some kind of an administrative or storage nexus the more I looked. In fact, it appears to look like blast doors that would accept even a double-decker bus. Heck, it could take a double-decker bus at full speed and not flinch. It was like the Cerberus, and I was dwarfed by it. Upon flashing their passes however, the agents escorting us tamed it. The soldiers standing before the gates let us through. One, likely the officer in charge from his lieutenant rank, spoke through his microphone. With a pause and a rumble, the Cerberus parted from the middle, slow at first but then building speed; eager to show us what was behind the curtain. Sure enough, it was different inside.

I had initially assumed that the centre-piece of the whole UN base in the middle of the savannah was a multiple-floored concrete building meant as some kind of a command HQ, or for admin and storage. Passing through the veil of blindness, we had gone behind the set and saw that all the buildings on stage were merely cardboard cut outs. Inside, the soldiers were dressed differently. No—let's be patient. There was a second pair of blast doors, acting like some airlock. My guess was a failsafe gate, in case an atom bomb the size of Washington D.C blew up just outside. Then, after that, the soldiers were dressed differently. Gone was the friendly sky-blue helmet with the humane UN crest, and gone was the stereotypical desert digital camouflage. Replacing them was a stark black, just black. Darkness. The soldiers within were all kitted out in digital black gear from helmet to boots. The SCAR-H was ubiquitous outside, desert brown and plain. Inside, they were also painted black, and was heavily modified with all manners of accessories that I decided not to look at for fear of looking like a terrorist. Similarly, the Atchisson Assault Shotguns, or AA-12s, had their variations in and out, made futuristic inside by the colour and insane upgrades. After allowing myself a peek, I thought I saw a twin laser aiming device of some sort on the shotguns, something I had never heard of.

There were two cargo lifts in the middle, flanked like king and queen by two of the black guards. It was built to scale with the blast doors, capable of accepting three 5-tonners or more and probably larger cargo trucks. It appeared so sturdy I assumed it could hold ten times the weight than the dimensions would suggest. Flanking the King and Queen Lifts like the black guards were three smaller lifts on each side for smaller things, like us people. While the cargo lifts were huge platforms with railings at the side and huge, brawny steel legs supporting equally brawny roofs, the smaller, passenger lifts appeared conventional, just that they were sticking out of the ground instead of the walls of a megacorporation skyscraper. A guard was standing between the smallies and the big cargo lifts; two corridors, two guards total. I assumed we were heading for the small ones, but before we could, we had to go through a security checkpoint not different from those found outdoors or on national borders—we had only gone about 10 metres towards the epic battery of lifts.

The passes they issued us seemed to seal our fate. They had our pictures; they had all our details—local ID numbers, full names, all likely taken from the government. The passes issued to us were permanent passes, not at all temporary passes I hoped them to be. It could only mean that we were permanent staff, unless their definition of a long stay was alien and impatient. Then there was the logo, or crest, printed on the pass. It was not the UN crest with the laurel and globe and the UN letters. It was some kind of a pentagon oblong at the bottom, blue with an 'X' crossing out the horizon of a globe and separating three stars. Their motto was 'Vigilo, Confido'. I knew roughly what it meant, but I couldn't figure it out—the price of being largely polytechnic-level student of science and a writer appealing to the mass. At this point, I was no longer sure if I was under the UN. It was really starting to feel like I was being trafficked into Africa to fight for a warlord, though from the looks of things he must be a billionaire, heck, trillionaire warlord.

The lifts we used were far less conventional than I had imagined. Outside, they look like they would fit a 5-star hotel, but when the doors slid open, it revealed something else altogether. The lightshow I promised myself returned. The panel was holographic, the buttons protruding weightlessly from a screen. Numerous diode-like things installed into the elevator emitted faint lights—I had no idea what they were. Chinese Suit saw my confusion and alleviated it, much to my surprise: "Looks like you're not an… Intruder. Congratulations." Beyond the fact that I was being scanned, I knew nothing else—what part of me was being scanned nor how. However, it was a generous gift of knowledge coming from the agent.

"Fortunately… for you." African Suit said, never failing to remind me that I was fragile like paper. To be fair though, his hands were hammy; they look like they could snap my neck. I was suddenly reminded of my childhood when I'd pluck off the heads of Lego people to redistribute them. My own felt detachable all of a sudden. I could not resist rubbing my nape after that.

My old friends looked equally tense, though Aahila infinitely less so. Knowing her, she only resembled us because she was holding back her excitement. I admired her thrill-seeker's mindset—if only I could pluck it off and replace mine with it like Lego.

The agents chose the floor for us. African Suit used his gun-barrel-like index finger to press 'B3 – Mission Control'. I could only speculate what it implied. It sounded like a term used in NASA or any other space programs. From the looks of it though, I wouldn't be surprised if it was actually what it says on the tin—that there would be a huge electronic hallway filled with dozens of keyboard monkeys and giant monitor screens_. Perhaps we would even get launched to the moon and mars_, I thought creatively, letting myself have a little fun with my head before I see the real thing.


	5. Chapter 4: Briefing Room 3

Chapter 4: Briefing Room 3

It was even better than expected. After exiting the space-age elevator, a long corridor that stretched across was there to add to the anticipation. It was wide, just like the above, and heavily guarded. The underground was just as acceptable to trucks—it was likely that storage wasn't far away. The underground was just as heavily guarded. Ahead of us was mission control, plainly etched on a plaque as tall as me with the same crest on my pass, just blown up, mounted on the several-storeys-high wall that made up the corridor/underground highway. Two security stations flanked the entrance, which consisted of greyed glass sliding doors, again double layered. It was likely made of glass that could stop a bomb, knowing them. Christmas trees made of cameras were atop these concrete underground bunkers, making sure that every nook and cranny of the underground highway was under surveillance. Each bunker had an entire squad in them, if the squad outside flanking the entrance wasn't enough. They made the Chinese military look like boy scouts, though I didn't say it out loud—half of them looked like they were from China. The variation in weapons down here was even greater. I saw two of them from afar carrying bulletproof shields of a design I had never seen before, some kind of a light but sturdy frame with double-layered transparent sheets, likely bulletproof. The organisation seems to be obsessed with double layers. _Vigilo Confido_.

As I got closer to the security bunkers I realised that I was half right—a quarter of the security guards were from China. Every guard wore a flag on the back of their vests. Half the others who looked Chinese were from Korea, Japan, heck, even Mongolia and a few from Russia. I thought I saw Thailand, and the other half, who were non-Asians, were just as varied. It was the UN at its best, the taskforce clearly a cross-cut of its parent organisation. They could have a second league of nations in the bunker alone. Brushing past a guard, I had the opportunity to see the doodads on him pretty clearly. The familiar-looking pentagon with an oblong bottom I glimpsed at on their vest under dim light above was actually a greyed out version of the UN Taskforce's crest. Badges analogous to what Aahila and Faizal were wearing adorned his person—they were clearly well organised, well-trained and well-equipped, and they were only security guards.

One of the black guardians took out a scanner to scan our passes. I didn't even realise they could be scanned until I took a second and third look again—there was likely an embedded chip in the pass. After passing through the double-layered security procedure, we went through the double-layered glass doors, into the heart of the UN Taskforce itself. From the underground highway, I could use the double-glass doors to see through into mission control itself, but all I could see were shadows and abstract geometrical shapes. Their mission control was far greater than what I could feebly imagine.

I imagined a giant monitor screen; they have a giant holographic display of the entire frickin' globe that was planet Earth. I imagined several dozen keyboard monkeys; they have about a hundred, with military officers in formal wear, scientists in their lab coats and engineers in their work clothes thrown in for extra measure. If I didn't know any better, or if my ego was a fraction of the globe's size, I would think that mission control was just dressing up to impress us.

The agents lead us up to the middle, past an important-looking catwalk that lead to another room, right up to the buttocks of planet Earth, where an important looking military officer was standing, looking at the globe and thinking in gigawatts about something or other. I recognised his epaulettes—he looked like a Major, but I could be wrong. He looked like someone from the cover of Time Magazine or a dozen other covers. It just so happened that I was looking at him from an angle that gave me a photogenic profile. Strong face, black short hair befitting a well-disciplined military officer and thick brows. Jaws just below thick-set and square.

"Sir, the… new recruits have arrived." Chinese Suit said to the Major, who, after a pause, turned to regard us. After coming closer, I realised that he was half a head taller than me. I stood at 1.8 metres, or a full head from Faizal and Aahila's perspective. Speaking of them, they went into an instant salute, and I followed suit awkwardly. I was in civilian clothing, with a trenchcoat and fedora on. I would have been excused from the gesture, but my old habits had decided to come with me on this trip, "The ones from… The Republic of Singapore."

"Thank you, agents." The Major said. He sounded more casual than I had expected. From what my old friend, Chinese Suit, had said, this organisation recruits from 'amongst the best' supposedly. Thankfully, the environment doesn't seem to be as charged up as I thought it would be, "Let me be the first to welcome you to XCOM, soldiers. We're all playing a very important role here, but I'm getting far ahead of myself. I am Central Officer Bradford, and I am the officer in charge of intelligence, information, speaking of which, the officer in charge of you is waiting in briefing room 3. He'll give you the whole story." We shook hands and wished each other well and that we would work together just fine.

As we were leaving for 'briefing room 3', I caught a few chatters that sounded interesting. Central Officer Bradford was asking one of the keyboard monkeys about the status of the 'Commander', and whether he had reached base, to which his subordinate replied a negative, and the former gave a standard 'keep me informed'. Then there was 'XCOM'. Apparently, the UN Taskforce was named XCOM, which I had no idea what it stood for. My mind started playing the puzzle game, trying to figure out the abbreviation. Xavier Command Officer Ministry? Combat Officer Ministry? The X limits the number of choices I have. Xavier stuck to my head like an idiot friend the size of a gorilla who wouldn't let go, impeding progress. I gave up within a few more tries, ending with 'X Company'. Then I settled with it having no clear meaning, and that it was just a codename, an undefinable syllable uttered in a congregation speaking in tongues.

The briefing room was not far away. It was part of mission control, at the side, but mission control was huge. Along the way, the speakers around the area started calling for us: "Singapore recruits to briefing room 3. Singapore recruits to briefing room 3." It was a calm, serene female voice, almost too perfect to be computerised, but like the other 1001 things in the underground base, I couldn't be sure.

We got back up to the important looking catwalk, and towards the opposite direction of where we were heading towards when we were lead to the central officer. On the opposite end of mission control was about five rooms on the first floor—there were many others devoted for God-knows-what. After trotting for a minute or two, we reached the five rooms. Peering inside 'Briefing Room 5', which had curtains that weren't drawn, was a briefing for the black-geared security guards from the audience I could see. 'Briefing Room 4' had a group of scientists listening to another scientist, a Caucasian woman of unknown nationality holding an advanced-looking datapad who looked important. The briefing rooms were airtight- I could not discern what anyone was saying. Finally, when Briefing Room 3 was reached, I could see people in various uniforms, a motley crew of soldiers pulled by an invisible hand from all parts of the globe. The door was opened for us by African Suit, and we entered. Chinese and African Suit did not—it seems that their job with us was finished. Before entering, I took one look at them. We said goodbye mentally to each other.

Inside, there was a man, a soldier presumably, at the podium. He wore another of those unknown uniforms. It was similar in some ways to what the central officer was wearing—the 'XCOM' patch was there, and the colour was about the same. Dark green, except that the guy at the podium was wearing what was clearly the combat uniform of 'XCOM', obvious from the digitised pattern and the combat boots, and how the sleeves were folded up neatly. One puzzling thing, however, was his rank. Although he was likely the 'officer in charge of you' or at least someone important enough to head a briefing, he had the rank of private, denoted by the single chevron on his chest. Yet, the wrinkles and greying hair he was wearing does not tally.

The old private on the podium was from Iraq, I knew from the flag on his right arm, a flag that I was very familiar with. It was a flag I respected: their country had suffered a lot under Saddam Hussein and insurgents later, their soldiers fought for more than a decade, first under said dictator then against the insurgents, and now, Iraq had come out of it a stronger nation, ready to confront the 2020s with all its challenges, be they military, economic or cultural. The old private looked like he had been fighting since 2000—the weariness behind his eyes were all too obvious as I'd seen it far too many times.

"Ah, finally, the Singaporeans come. Find yourself seats." The Iraqi officer-in-charge said as he ticked something on his datapad, looked at it again for a moment, "the briefing will start soon. The Chinese and British are still not here." While his command of English was not doubtful, he was very deliberate of his language, a sign that he was a recent student of the language— either that or he had no formal instruction in it. Either way, it gave me an impression of his mental ability, though it was too early to judge.

There was a refreshments table in a corner that I could not resist. I had barely drunk my mug of coffee—I had only taken a few sips before leaving it behind in Singapore to fly over to… here. Though it tasted like a rubbish chute, I needed the boost in energy. Taking a plastic cup, I filled it with hot, steaming coffee. Sipping it, it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I could feel every muscle in my face activate, acid travelling throughout. My old friends followed me, but took tidbits instead; Aahila a few sandwiches and Faizal some chocolate fudge brownies.

We were seated somewhere in the middle, which was the back of the filled seats. Observing the crowd, I noticed two Americans in standard battle order, dirty and smelly. There was even a splatter of blood on one of them, around the shoulder—they were likely pulled out of a combat zone. Knowing the U.S as it was, they were likely pulled out of home soil. The last time I read the newspaper, there was mounting unrest in a few states, and along with it civil disorder, riots, even armed rebellion and home-grown terrorism. The poor American soldiers were pulled out from the hell that was the middle-east only to end up fighting in another hell at their own backyard.

One of them, a bald African-American, was tired enough to be asleep even in a place as abuzz as this, while the other, a Caucasian, was talking to a woman in a dress with a Scottish accent—she might have been approached in a function or a ball by the agents. There were four Indian nationals in uniform, chatting amongst themselves in their fast-paced speech, obviously excited at their prospects. I heard some chatter in Russian, and traced it back to a pair of men, and beside them was a lone soldier who was sitting at attention, disciplined even when he was not asked to be, looking plain and unimpressive. Looking down to the back of his chair, I spotted a Khukukri—Christ, he's a grade A Gurkha! From Nepal! His place in the Nepalese military could be seen from his uniform, which uses a backward woodlands camouflage scheme—the Nepalese flag was sewn proudly on it. A beefy man with a moustache who spoke with a Spanish or Portuguese accent was chatting up a smiley, outgoing woman from the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force, or Japan Ground Defense Force—a few years back, Japan was allowed by the UN to operate as any army would, a gesture of forgiveness made by the UN, though as with all political situations, it was hardly a unanimous decision.

I was beginning to understand, in bits and pieces, what XCOM was about, although it remains to be seen what the 'global threat' was—my guess leans towards a new crisis, some kind of a new terrorist group that had gone unnoticed and able to build cells all over the world. It remains to be seen, why such a diverse group of individuals of the best was needed. I still felt out of place.


	6. Chapter 5: The Small Man

Chapter 5: The Small Man

"So, what've you two been up to all these years?" When it was clear that we were in for a long wait, we started talking amongst ourselves, just like all the others, except the U.S soldier who was asleep and probably dreaming nightmares. The first thing to check out was what was out there back in Singapore, what was rendered mundane by all the best lightshow on Earth.

"Other than the Terror Crisis in Europe?" It was Mohammad Faizal who responded first. Aahila was still looking around and eating her sandwiches—she had taken another plate of them, "actually ah, that was two years ago. Before that ah, they made me a lecturer and instructor. To them, I… We are a rarity. How many from Singapore get to go to war?"

"Was it an easy job? I mean, you don't have to worry about getting shot in the head all the time, right?" I went with the flow—there was a lot of catching up to do. We were like brothers (and Aahila like a sister) out in Iraq. It was very easy to slip back into that frame of mind again, especially when we started working together once again. From the looks of it, that might be the case here.

"No, not senang at all. They wanted to suck me dry! They wanted me to plan the Warfighter Course from the ground up! Alamak, I even went on to publish a textbook, and a trainer's guidebook! That's crazy academic shit for a job in the army, eh? Kept me back in camp late into the night so often my wife threatened to divorce!" He went back into his own world, as men of my age do. I didn't mind. I was intrigued. I could only ask if he was divorced, to which he replied that his wife could never do it, "anyway, they said I revolutionised their training system—apparently. But they still sent me to Europe. They say they need my experience."

I took it all in, but his story was incomplete, "What did you do after the European Terror Crisis?"

"Same old shit, until this happened. I think ah, being out in the field is better than spending a whole day in the office 'revolutionising training systems'." Faizal was never an office person, that much he had in common with Aahila. I disagreed with him about the office—I could thrive in it. That was where my similarity with them stops where work ethics was concerned. The conversation quickly turned to Aahila Singri. I asked the same questions. It felt coldly like an interview—perhaps the alien environment was getting to me, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Same as Faizal, except worse. I became an instructor for women's BMT. It was boooooooring, and I don't get to shoot, as in for real." Aahila said. She clearly hated that old job, and still does now. She was the type who couldn't and probably shouldn't be kept on an office chair, or away from her rifle.

Before the conversation could go on any further, the door opened, and in came a whole bunch of people—the British, then the Chinese. The room was starting to smell—the Americans had brought the stench of the battlefield along with them, and the two British soldiers had added to the stinkpot. Looking around, I saw that they were similarly in combat gear that was caked in dried mud and grass. Their rifles, like my old USP pistol, wasn't relieved from them. They both carried the L85A2—aging models that were likely to remain in service for decades to come. With the United Kingdom weakened by the independence granted to Scotland by the UN and the rapidly deteriorating economy and stability in Europe, their military would likely stagnate, even regress, and get cut down to size. The Chinese were far better off. The communist regime, now hardly a communist regime, had gone a long way from being controlled by a small leftist group with no regular army to the world's leading superpower nation, soon to eclipse the United States and European Union. The state of their army followed suit, and had become the largest standing army in the world with the best technology available at their disposal. There were rumours that the Chinese military possessed laser weapons and railguns in their armouries, but so far, China had been able to keep this a secret as no one from the president of whatever country down to the common everyman knew for sure. The Chinese men and woman were coming in only their pixelated uniform. Their numerical superiority was almost represented by the ratio between the UK and Chinese soldiers. Where the United Kingdom (though not exactly united anymore) had volunteered two soldiers, there were three Chinese soldiers.

"China and… United Kingdom, I guess that's everyone-" The old private at the podium said, but regardless, he started counting heads, making sure that no one was missing. He started ticking his datapad with his index finger again. The sleeping African-American was riled awake while the Iraqi was doing this. Quite shockingly, he jumped to his feet and raised his rifle, shouting about gangsters and looters—he wasn't just in a nightmare, he was in hell when he was asleep, from the looks of it. It was far worse than I imagined in the U.S. His fellow American soldier and the Scottish woman in a dress had to calm him down and assure him that his frickin' safety had to be switched back on. My hand clutched tightly around the handle of my own firearm, alarmed about the sudden action in the room, and it was only when the soldier on edge sat down again did I pull my hand back out of my trenchcoat.

"Sorry, sorry, please continue." The other American apologised, and the Iraqi returned to counting the last few heads, which was the Chinese sitting behind us. It didn't take long however—much to Aahila's delights and a little of mine. I needed to know what was going on, and Aahila was dying to get her hands on the hard info, like who she gets to kill, what she could kill with and where she could kill. A true warrior through and through. The briefing started soon afterwards:

"Before I start, I would like to welcome everyone to XCOM. Each and every one of you have been singled out as your nation's best. Congratulations. Now…" He pressed something on his datapad. The lights dimmed and a powerpoint presentation was flashed on the screen behind and beside him. The 'XCOM' crest took over the wall behind the Iraqi soldier, proud and prominent, mysterious from its five points down to the middle, "you are now an operative of XCOM, and this is the logo you'll see very often." The slide changes again to a much desired page, "XCOM. It stands for Extraterrestial Combat Unit. We are an international organisation formed by the UN in 2012 as a research commission at first-"

The answer I had been searching for was not exactly the one I expected. It was written all over my face, except no one was looking. Everyone else was busy making the same face as me, and saying the same things, like 'what the hell' and 'what?'. I had expected a new terrorist threat, but what I get was 'extra-terrestrial'. True to what the Iraqi said about us being the best, the words of doubt were silenced automatically and willingly in order for the Iraqi to speak. For a moment, the Iraqi paused before continuing:

"In 2012, XCOM was founded as XILAU, or Extra-terrestrial Investigation Legislative Autonomous Unit. It was a department for investigating UFOs. Now, there is sufficient evidence that we are coming into contact with extra-terrestrials, and they may be a threat, and just two weeks ago on the 13th of December 2019, we are reactivated as XCOM." The slide changes to the next page again, plunging us all deeper into the abyss, the summit of our knowledge and the pit of our fears, as a very popular man used to say. The next slide looked like a sham, with some pictures of lights in the sky over the years. Some of them were in the media, others, not so. There were some very convincing pictures, but they could easily be fakes. The slide after that though… There was a picture of a UFO—though not the kind that was commonly portrayed in the media, such as on TV or the internet. There was heavy static and distortion, but I saw a part of a disk-like vehicle in a forest, with fuselage that was intricately designed and… energy shields at one corner that looked somewhat like the holographic heads-up display I had been glancing off computers at mission control. I could barely make out a hexagonal pattern on it. Then there was something… A faint image of a small man standing, no, hunching behind the vehicle—he could be on all fours, but I wasn't sure. The static had left out a lot of details. The head was larger than normal, and the limps thin, reminding me of starvation victims. There was something rectangular on its arm. The picture was too dark and there was too much static to see clearly. It was almost a silhouette. Still, it made me shiver a bit, and I was wearing a thick trenchcoat and fedora.

"This is a frame taken from a video feed of one of our operatives. It is the only frame with things in it. It was from a real video of real objects from a real mission." The speaker touched his datapad again, and zoomed into the picture, focusing on the small figure behind the UFO, "this is the extra-terrestrial contact, and it could be dangerous. As I mentioned, there was a real mission. It was the first mission ever undertaken by XCOM, and it went disastrously. Twenty operatives were sent when the UFO was detected. Communications were blacked out when they arrived on site, and when the Skyrangers returned, none of them was in it. The pilots, all six of them, reported firing on site." There was silence in the briefing room, not the usual 'what?', 'what the hell' and 'this is a joke', "the detail for this first mission consists of purely security and science personnel, but now XCOM has changed its mission protocols. You belong to a new military branch of XCOM, which will attend future missions in place of security and science personnel."

There was another slide change, this time to a less tense page, which consists of the military hierarchy of XCOM, "Alpha and Bravo squad was formed a week ago. Your batch will form Charlie and Delta. Appointments and roles will be distributed as training progresses. I am the officer in charge of the platoon, formerly Muqaddam or Lieutenant Colonel Rashid Majid, now Private Rashid Majid." At this, I was unsure of what he meant—I understood that he was put in charge of us. Yet at the same time, he was stripped down to private to do it. The sentiment was largely echoed throughout the room in the faces of the other soldiers, which Rashid noticed, "Yes, I am private, as you all will be. It is standard protocol that all soldiers, regardless of rank, start as privates—Orders of the command staff. Their rationale is that new grounds require a fresh start. Soldiers will be promoted based on merit on and off the battlefield." There goes my inspector rank, now nothing more than a weightless word on some secret document. Faizal's Master Warrant Officer and Aahila's Staff Sergeant ranks would be gone as well, at least until we leave XCOM, assuming there was a way out other than the 100% mortality rate mission.

"I will give you a moment to read the rest of the names on the slide." Our officer-in-charge said, and looked down at the table of his podium, presumably to look through his own notes. I could barely concentrate on the slide—my head was lagging behind, still digesting the last few slides. Aliens? I could barely even comprehend. The image of the hunched small man kept returning. I started putting the typical little green man or grey alien features on it—small nose and mouth, large black eyes. Despite this deconstruction, I could still imagine that thing looking around at me and still get scared. I imagined myself alone in a dark forest, facing that thing—and I no longer wanted to imagine anymore. The Iraqi's voice knocked me out of my trance:

"Now, as you know, the 20 of you here will form Charlie and Delta squad. Take note that this can change—you can be shifted to another squad on short notice. For now, Charlie Squad will consist of Sergeant Sam Trevor of USA, Master Sergeant Li Da Xia of China, Sergeant First Class Wu Jia Li of China, Major Charles Robinson of UK, Lieutenant Bakarh Raja of India, Sergeant Lakarh Raja of India, Master Warrant Officer Mohammad Faizal of Singapore, Staff Sergeant Aahila Singri of Singapore, Captain Sergei Pavlova of Russia and Sergeant Joan Wallace of Scotland. Delta Squad will be Sergeant Ben Washington of USA, Lieutenant Lee Mei Li of China, Corporal Stanley Lau of China, Master Sub-Officer Sergio Sanchez of Argentina, Lieutenant Midori Koto of Japan, Sergeant Yegor Moskva of Russia, Sergeant Krishnabahadur Sahi of Nepal, Captain Rajan Kavita of India, Corporal Aditya Rushdie of India and Inspector Raven Chua of Singapore." The slide changes quickly after the officer-in-charge was done, leaving very little time for me to think—the main thing that registered with me was that I won't be working with my old friends, "Basic training will begin at 1900 hours today and will last until Sunday. Today's training consists of base and squad orientation, physical fitness test and a minor examination based on materials for which you will be given. Report to the training grounds below the barracks at 1900 hours in your local service uniform."

The light was soon back to full brightness, and someone in a uniform not of the XCOM military branch came in with a box loaded with datapads, "one more thing. All imports and standard equipment are delivered to your bunks. Follow the signs to the barracks."


	7. Chapter 6: Rec Room Talk

Chapter 6: Rec Room Talk

It felt like BMT half a lifetime ago, back when I lived in the moment, just discovering the new world around me, trying to cope. When briefing was over, I followed the crowd as it chatters its way past the briefing rooms and into new territory, a corridor leading towards the barracks. There was still a couple of hours before training, so everyone took their time. Through the middle of the corridor, I saw a secured entryway leading into the armoury, double-layered like those of mission control, but with far less glass and more steel. In a brief glance through the glass, I saw only crates, numerous crates. A compact forklift was just lowering a few more down, before backing away and exiting the armoury. We had to make way for it, and in the short moment the armoury doors opened, I saw names on the crates, country names. The ones just in were from the UK and China, and I thought I saw Singapore in there.

The corridor led into a recreation room of sorts. It was austere and new, I could smell it in the air. There were pool tables, a pair of them. Tables and chairs cluttered a corner, with a counter stocked with board games and cards. I spotted Monopoly and Chinese Chess alongside packs of cards and Mahjong. At another corner were arcade games that, from what I could see on the screen, had a selection of programmes rather than just the usual one. There were vending machines, but I realised it was merely a formality and decoration. The price tags on the selection screen read '$0.00' in price. The machines were larger than normal. They were really taking care of us, and something tells me we would really need these assets a lot. One thing was missing though, something that was ubiquitous throughout the many army camps I was familiar with—the bar. My question was answered when I glanced up, only to see that there was one somewhere below—that I was sure we would all really need. I was still shaken by the UFO alien image I saw. The Small Man was still a fresh wound on my mind.

"Hey Rave, Aahil, want to chill in here first?" Faizal offered, obviously quite charmed by the Rec Room. Looking around, I noticed that he wasn't the only one with the idea, as several members of Charlie and Delta squads were already finding their seats. I was still thinking of the image I saw, and he scared me senseless. I was only able to save myself from disgrace by not hollering.

"Sure, I could really use a drink." I was rather sincere in this case, as the small cup of coffee seemed insufficient, and I was hoping for a tall and chilled can of it in the free vending machine.

"C'mon." Aahila agreed, going along and still spunky as usual. Around the middle, there was something of an informal conference area: a large, circular coffee table surrounded by tube-like modernist sofas, enough for a squad of ten to form a bonfire party comfortably. Already, quite a few of our new acquaintances were already there, or heading there. The Argentinian and Japanese were already there, continuing one conversation or another. The two Americans were already done with the vending machine and heading towards the informal conference area, the water in their bottles no longer good enough in the face of XCOM's generosity. It was an unintended opportunity to perhaps connect with our new colleagues. There were even a few 'veterans' from Alpha and Bravo squads, as marked by their XCOM uniform—while the Iraqi was in standard combat uniform, these guys were in some kind of a vest and slack. While their boots and pants were the same, they wore XCOM shirts, likely leaving their tops behind in the bunks.

I volunteered as the water boy, taking orders from them. Faizal wanted to indulge in Coca-Cola, while Aahila was hoping for Carlsberg, if there's beer in the vending machine. All I wanted was Coffee. Going over to the vending machines, I spotted no buttons at all. There was only the advertisement screen in the middle, which I pressed instinctively with my finger, lacking anything else to press. To my surprise, the advertisements fell away, revealing a menu. Even the vending machines were latest technology. The screen had touch technology. The menu was bigger than the usual 8-12 on a normal drinks machine, containing selections from all over the world, though local selections were limited. Coca-Cola, the ubiquitous soft drink, was at the top of the menu, so I selected that first for Faizal. Scrolling down, I spied my coffee at the bottom, but there was no Carlsberg or any hard drinks for that matter—they probably belonged to the bar below. Instead, the closest thing was actual root beer, so I selected that for Aahila.

_Clunk_. The can of root beer fell, louder than usual. Before I picked it up, I looked around at my friends, and saw that they were already talking to the others. It saved me the effort to start. Coming back, I could catch that they were just beginning to introduce themselves and each other. The Russians had just joined the circle, leaning their arms on the sofas, "name's Mohammad Faizal, I'm from Singapore, you know, in south-east asia-" I hadn't missed anything important. I walked over, reminding myself that despite the new background, it was business as usual. Professionalism. I pretended to miss everything, handed the cans to my friends.

"And who is this, Dick Tracy?" The African-American joked upon seeing me. I did look the part, what with my stereotypical detective attire. I got the joke, having digested every single detective fiction in the world, just to have fun poking at the naivety of the writers who authored them.

"The pirated Asian version, gadgets not included." I smiled, signalling to him that I got the reference, the joke. It was the same everywhere, how connections were made—from the aboriginals in Australia to the highest echelons of politics, it was all about similarities. Once identified, the rest was straightforward, "I'm Inspector Raven Chua of the Criminal Investigations Department, Singapore Police Force. Don't ask me how I got here." I put out a hand for the international gesture, which the African-American shook fervently with an accepting smile.

"You're alright man!" He said, far happier looking than he previously was. The splatter of blood was still on his shoulder. He added a slap on my arm for good measure.

"He used to serve in Guards with us. We served together in Iraq during the final clean-up operations, right Rave?" Faizal chipped in a few more for me, a gesture I supported with an affirmative. Things seemed peachy, though we were all just pushing away the Small Man we saw during briefing, and the African-American, the horrors he experienced back in the States. It was unhealthy, at least I thought so.

"I'm Sergeant Ben Washington, U.S Infantry. I was stationed in Los Angeles when they airlifted me from forward base." He introduced himself, but it was reminder enough of where he came from, not the geographical location, but the experience he had come out of.

"How bad is it there, in L.A?" I chanced—we were in the same squad, and I had to find a way to get it out of his system. We would be working together, against the Small Man. I wouldn't want him to blank out when he was guarding my back, say. Everyone else, however, fell silent. It was common knowledge that things were evil-evil-bad in the U.S. For a moment, I thought I had made a bad mistake in speaking about it.

"Horrible. Gangs and looters out in the open, people killing each other, riots turned violent." He went on. As if his helmet was stifling his thoughts, he unclipped his chinstrap and removed it, "there was this kid, just barely over 16. Raised a pistol at me. I had to kill him." An awkward silence. I felt like I was done for, that I had reached a hand in the cookie jar and it was stuck. But it was for a good cause. I was no psychiatrist, but I had counselled aplenty before both in the SAF and SPF.

"There's nothing you could do. I understand. It wasn't your fault. We were all in Iraq. For what it's worth, we understand, right?" There was some nodding and murmurs of agreement. My 'finding similarities' principle was still holding strong. The Caucasian American patted him on the back—he eyed me for a bit, not accusing me of anything, but recognising what I was doing, asking me silently to tread lightly. I was no typical tragic movie hero—I had never shot a kid with a gun before, but I had killed my fair share in the middle-east. It never felt good. There never was a victory. Thankfully, Aahila wasn't talking, or she'd ruin it.

"Well, it looks like we won't be shooting at people anymore." Another voice said. It was one of the Russians, Yegor Moskva. It reminded me of the Small Man. I resisted my body's need to shiver even more.

"Whatever it is, I'll be ready." The other Russian, one Sergei Pavlova said, who went on to introduce himself and Yegor. Another round of handshakes and hellos, "it looks wimpy, that shorty."

"It looks like a hoax, that's what it is." The white American said on the fly, which was probably what half the people here probably thinks, "little green man, oh come on!"

"I wouldn't be so sure." It was the Argentinian's turn apparently, "it would be a billion dollar hoax if you're right. Suboficial Principal Sergio Sanchez. I was in Mexico before. I know how you feel, Ben." He introduced himself, shook hands especially with Ben, gave him a slap on the arm, returning the gesture for me back to him. My therapeutical gambit seemed to be working with the help of teamwork. Something tells me we would get along just fine.

"It did take out 20 people, that's for sure." The words came out automatically as my mind returned to meditation mode, focusing on the Small Man, "not so wimpy to me. We should be careful."

"Well." Ben Washington spoke up again, a very positive sign of recovery, "as long as we're not shooting at people, I'm fine. I'd go toe-to-toe with Godzilla if I have to, just no more kids."

"I really hope something smaller comes instead though." The Japanese Lieutenant spoke up finally, "Lieutenant Kato Midori. I'm from 1st Airbourne Brigade, JDGF. I know I haven't been through as much, but I hope I will be able to contribute." She introduced herself in a straightforward and serious manner, even taking a slight bow, likely out of habit.

"Lady, you wouldn't want to go through that much." Ben said rather readily.

"I know. I am supposed to end my service a month later. I am going to be a violinist soon. It's my dream." She said, cracking a smile at the same time, which was infectious enough that Ben and Sergio followed along. She was untarnished compared to us, and as a result, far more happy-go-lucky than any of us. She could even beat Aahila at her own game, "I hope this will be over soon. I've even brought my instrument to practice." Somehow, I had a feeling that we're in for a long ride. Even an overseas deployment would be a half-year affair at least. If it was a deployment that had something to do with aliens, there's no telling how long our services would be required.

"When this is over, I'm going to build myself a mansion and just… forget everything." Ben returned. With our monthly allowance that high, his retirement plan would likely be a reality. Provided that he get out of all this alive in the first place.

"And I'm going to get drunk every night and day, hah!" Sergei added, hi-fiving his buddy, who seemed to be thinking along the same line. It was also about time we scattered to research our material, and prepare for training. I stood up, and gave Ben Washington a pat again.

"Well, sarge, I'm going to my bunk." I said and started making a move.

"No, not sarge anymore, remember? I'm Private Ben Washington, Private Raven." The African-American said. I turned around, confused for a second before remembering that we were all effectively stripped of rank, the table wiped clean and levelled for everyone. I finally got the joke.

"Right, see you, private. Private Faizal, Private Aahila, I'll be in my bunk." I went along with the joke, upgrading it into a running joke. I turned to the others and nodded at them as a sign of mutual respect, "Privates."

It took me some time to find my bunk, but as it turned out, mine was at the lowest level of the barracks, which, in the end, came as no surprise, considering that I was in Delta Squad. Entering it through a serious space-age door, I found it to be somewhat spacious. Although it was a communal living space, dividing walls were set up inside to provide a measure of privacy, and wooden doors installed to complete it, and also to provide a touch of home. It worked. Somewhat. Entering the door that had my name, I found everything I had packed at the foot of my bed.

I removed and put aside my trenchcoat, hat and firearm, finally, and crawled into bed to go through the datapad that was given to me. The Small Man was still on my mind, impeding my progress. Setting down the datapad on the end table beside me, I stared into the cold, steel ceiling, wondering how Elizabeth and the kids were coping. Somehow, the Small Man was standing there beside them, an ominous figure. I had to try hard to imagine him away.


	8. Chapter 7: Into the New Year

Chapter 7: Into the New Year

By the time training was soon to start, my head felt like an alarm clock, banging and ringing. The Recruit's Manual contained within the datapad was a little dry, but it was a good read that I can't seem to put down. It felt almost like a mockumentary or a novel written too realistically and too good. It did help pass the time and forget, at least temporarily, about the Small Man, so that I could have a clearer picture of my family. Looking around at the digital clock I discovered during one of my rest breaks, I noticed that I had only 15 minutes to get down to the training grounds below. Thankfully, the Delta bunks were at the bottom.

Waking from my surprisingly soft military bunk bed, I walked around to my luggage—in my need to get a fix through the manual, I didn't bother to unpack, not that I was any much neater in normal circumstances. Unzipping it, I pulled out a set of uniforms, which I had not worn for months—being a CID investigator had its perks. The last time I had to put it on was for the National Day Parade 2019 back in august. I had volunteered back then to be part of the marching contingent for old time's sake, and to get a break from reality and routine. My hands loosened, and the uniform slipped back down into the luggage. I wasn't sure if I should be in my office attire or if I should be in the blue. I wanted my usual—I hated the change. I decided on the usual.

Back then in NDP 2019, routine had never been so boring, but now it was becoming a comfort in light of everything—the Small Man, the XCOM, the conspiracies both real and imagined. I went over to the door, took my trenchcoat, fedora hat and my holstered gun (it was air conditioned, and I was quite a reptile) and went out, as I had always done so when I left the office on a rainy day or at midnight. I decided to go with routine and be early.

To access the training grounds below, all I had to do was to go down a flight of stairs leading down. I was extremely early, as it was less than a five minutes' walk away. The stairs led me to a locker room of sorts, with rows of metal lockers as tall as me. There were no benches until I saw someone pull it out from the ground so that the locker room was far more spacious than it actually was. The one who discovered it was actually Aahila. She hadn't changed either, sticking with her number 4 woodlands digital camouflage uniform, which happens to be what our officer in charge ordered.

"What happened to your uniform?" She asked, surprised to see me still in the same trenchcoat and hat.

"You're looking at it." I replied, business as usual, and sat down beside her, waiting for our training to officially begin.

I remained in this attire for the majority of training in the next 3 days. When the Iraqi Officer in Charge saw me like this, he never questioned me, but everybody else did, and I had to repeat myself like the base's announcer time and time again. It was only for practical training, such as combat simulations and the target range that I had to come in regular uniform.

Speaking of which, the first day of training was unremarkable, yet interesting. We were all given a lecture on the base, a virtual tour via a holographic projection, so that we would know the ins and outs of the base, or at least where we were authorised in normal circumstances. After that, we were given a lecture on the various weapons that XCOM had in the armoury. Apparently, the science and engineering teams in XCOM had been busy since the time in the olden days when XCOM was XILAU. Besides sending teams over to investigate lights, phenomenon and conduct tests, they had, two years ago, started developing high-technology weapons for use, in blueprint at first, but soon it became practical—for what reason they did this before the advent of the Small Man, I do not know. My head had been ringing in conspiracy for long since then that it barely registered.

They had come up with the X-9 Assault Rifle, which was an amalgamation of several designs, bringing in the reliability and firepower of the AK series of rifles, the high technology of several western models and the latest in weapons computing, it was something that looked like it came from a decade later. I could see the resemblance of the rifle to the FN SCAR and the AK, crossbred to produce the X-9. The way it was displayed on the holographic projectors in the lecture hall of the training grounds, it had a reflex sight and a computer monitor for round-corner firing, ammunition calculation and various vision modes.

Alongside the X-9 Assault Rifle were advanced models for every class of weapons. XCOM was packing, and they were serious about the alien threat, even when half the soldiers I was brought in with were still sceptical. The only problem was supply. While the designs were completed 2 years ago and the prototypes tested successfully a year later, they were never brought into production until XILAU was reactivated as XCOM. They were, then, only the product of serious what-ifs and doomsday scenarios.

XCOM was XCOM only two weeks ago. Since then, as my new Officer in Charge had presented, engineering was only able to set up the production lines three days ago, and now there were only enough pieces to arm a squad, the number for each model could be counted with a single hand, except for the grenades. Similarly, we could only expect to be trained in their use but not use it in the field. So much for being serious about the alien threat. I felt like I was in danger. I could almost imagine the Small Man smiling.

After the lecture with Everything XCOM being the topic of the day, we had a squad orientation session, which almost felt like an alcoholics anonymous group which my wife forced me through when I started visiting a bar—I was never addicted or even drunk, but detectives and the bar seemed to go together and produce wine-soaked film noir in the popular media. We sat around a conference table that looked like it was taken out of the latest sci-fi movie and introduced each other for the umpteenth time, but this time with the added spice of talking about each and everyone's combat experience and training, and how we could work together in a squad. XCOM was too new and the move to put the world's best into single squads unprecedented that there was no standard protocol for it. XCOM was only XCOM two weeks ago, and before that it was a scientific investigative group. I felt unsafe once again, and tried to contribute.

What we talked about on the first day we put into practice the next. One of the prominent questions was who gets to command the squad—in my local term, who gets 'arrowed' in other words. I was never the great leader, so I passed the baton when I was asked about it. The baton fell readily into the Argentinian, Sergio Sanchez, who everyone agreed was the most experienced leader, having fulfilled the capacity of a specialist, warrant officer and even the roles of officers before. He was a natural leader, and he had three decades and numerous peacekeeping missions to practice with, having been in the army since he was 18—he's expecting his 48th birthday soon. He became squad commander, and selected the Japanese, Kato Midori and me to be 2nd and 3rd commanders, as we were considered to be the most innovative. In truth, I was just trying hard to save ourselves from the old-as-dirt ignorance that had killed billions—no point showing up in front of the aliens to prove that we were every bit as primitive as they think we were. In truth, Midori and me—we were just the ones who talked the most. The Japanese Lieutenant from Airborne was the true innovator, asking the right questions, while I was just blurting out what I know.

Squad tactics: it was where we both apparently shined. It was here that I recited what I knew from my police business. I suggested conducting our business in the same manner the police does, since in a way, the situation with the aliens were similar to many of the cases I attended. The aliens were suspected of murder, but they were not caught red-handed. They were suspected to be trespassing on the great trillion-dollar property that was Earth. We still had no idea if they were truly hostile. I was optimistic enough to think of the aliens as peaceful, but in truth, all I wanted to do was to go back to Singapore. In other words, I suggested trying to talk to the aliens first, knocking on their door so to speak, when they decided to rent a room somewhere on Earth. Midori became the opposition to my idea, and many echoed her sentiments even when they found my recital beautiful—to them, it was just a possibility and the idea of peace and communication something that happens only in fiction. Beautiful but ultimately fiction.

On the other hand, Midori suggested the extensive use of drones and electronic technology, something very much expected of someone from the Japanese military, but brilliant and original anyway. She thought of the idea of deploying surveillance drones, be it tracked and flying, and tapping into local cameras to observe the aliens first before going in—if they were observed to be hostile, then we greet them with bullets, but if they seemed friendly, we greet them with words. She built on my idea, gave me credit—she was the definition of teamwork—rather than shoot me down. It felt like a pat on my back, something I was sceptical of unless I was talking to close friends, until now. Right then and there, I knew it had become my job to make sure she gets out of this to play her violin. The Officer in Charge and Sanchez seemed to like her idea. It makes everyone feel drunk with some measure of control, brainstorming and training. Deep down, however, I knew that we were just merely a tribe of ape-men prodding at fire, wondering aloud if it was living or not. Half of us still think that the aliens were fake, and that this was all a conspiracy of some kind. I felt it in the pit of my stomach, scorching my diaphragm, the sense of urgency that the fire would burn us even when we were wondering if it was all illusion.

The next two days were largely combat simulations. The training grounds had a wide area dedicated to that, and we were put in a mock-desert-city-in-Iraq environment up against holographic terrorists—with no data on the aliens, they could not simulate them as pop-up enemies. We had to train with our own gears, and our own weapons. This was where I figured out what those crates with the country names were in the armoury. Without my knowledge, they had imported in local equipment. Mine was taken directly from the police headquarters I was stationed in. They even got the exact same weapons with the exact registry number for me. Due to this effort, I had to train in full tactical gear normally associated with the STAR (Special Tactics and Rescue) branch of the SPF. Helmet, vest, guards, turning me into a steel golem. I preferred the old fashioned approach, though it was refreshing to hold the Daewoo Precisions Industry USAS-12 once again. I had the choice between that and the MP7 and the SAR-21. I was spoiled for choice.

The days slipped by unnoticed, and it was only during the New Year countdown that I realised my family had to count down alone. Before going out to join my squad at the bar, which had a flat television to view fireworks from a random country on BBC, I was rummaging through my luggage in search of a spare belt when my hands caught something wooden. Pulling it out, I realised it was my family's photo. This I installed to my end table, the quintessential place for a family photo, though I was hoping to digitize it, going beyond perfection. The Small Man had no place on the table, but it crept there nonetheless. In the nights when all was quiet, he would sneak into my bunk, clandestine like a ninja, giving me nightmares. I kept dreaming about facing the Small Man in a forest as dark as it. It was always the first to fire, and it was always able to hit me with invisible ammunition, when I was always missing it. Unoriginal yet frightening, like a B movie choked full to the lips with jump scares, jump scares that could put an operationally ready man in hospital.


	9. Chapter 8: A Streak of Green

Chapter 8: A Streak of Green

After completing our orientation program and basic training over the weekend, we were given a day to recuperate before the regular training begins. In XCOM's military branch, regular training was never more casual. Having acknowledged the fact that the best soldiers (and law enforcers) had yet to show any flaws in discipline and self-training, things were made less rigid and structured, unless there was something new and a specialised course was needed, case in point would be the base, personnel and equipment orientation. Regular training refers to clocking in some time at the range and the gym. We had the liberty to schedule our own training, the only limitations being the facilities' capacity. The only objective for us to meet was to hit the target that was set by central command, such as 95% accuracy for our primary weapon and 30 seconds to assemble and disassemble a weapon. The only punishment for not meeting the objective was extra training time, and an email sent to the squad commander (in my case, Sanchez) and officer-in-charge about the unmet objective.

* * *

From up above the starry sky of Munich, Germany, what appears to be a shooting star streaking across the sky. Late-nighters looked on, some wishing upon the unique star at first, thinking that they were lucky, but when it became apparent that it was a meteorite of some kind, they treated it as an eye candy—_so beautiful! With a streak of green!_ Children with their families out after a movie, couples soon to be married or on the way, or some men and women not to be judged were all, since the meteorite appeared, equal under them.

Then it got a little too big, a little too close, the green streaking behind a little too clear. Some panicked, others ran, but most stood stock still like the very mannequin they walked past. When its impact was imminent, all of them were thankfully smart enough to find cover. Then there was impact—it had landed right in the middle of a road junction, where few people would be standing anyway, coincidentally. The road was devastated as a crater was dug up within an instant, dust was kicked up, a very scaled-down version of what might have happened to the dinosaurs.

Very slowly, but surely, the dust began to settle, and the more adventurous or curious ones of the late-nighters began to walk towards the billowing but falling dust, towards the meteorite that had landed exactly right in the middle of the junction. When the veil of grey and brown finally fell away, it became clear how the meteorite looked. Only, it was no meteorite.

The thing that fell from the sky resembled an egg, only that it wasn't round, soft and beautiful, and it certainly doesn't make its onlookers think of half-boiled eggs and breakfast, quite the opposite. It was sharp and jagged, mean-looking. Despite this, a crowd was gathering around the thing. Green lights decorated the object with ill omen, throwing wisps of sickly fog around it. The crowd got within five metres of it, then four, and three. One particularly brave young man in a business suit, weighed down by life but still not broken yet, reached out for the enthralling greenish egg thing, held back by fear and yet pushed on by curiosity. His index finger flexed, almost ready to touch it, when he found out quite suddenly why those who could escape by vehicle were the prudent ones.

Floating tendrils as green as the light and fog around the object burst forth—the crowd hardly even had time to react. They appeared neither like mass nor energy, but engulfed the Germans nonetheless, pulling them into the green, covering them up in the same translucent floating ooze that made up the tendrils. While men, women and children alike were screaming and kicking for mercy but encased in hardening green-ness all the same, only a lucky few were able to escape the tendrils. But more was coming, streaks of green, all concentrated unnaturally in one spot…

* * *

I was barely into my training regime shortly after New Year 's Day when it happened. I could only believe that I was still asleep, having dreamt my fears into existence. It was near midnight when the speakers throughout the base sounded, "Delta squad to Hanger Bay 2. Delta squad to Hanger Bay 2." Having done this a million times before, before all this attack of surrealism happened, I almost literally jumped out of the bed I was trying to sleep in, tearing away my casual clothes and putting on my uniform and boots. I sprinted towards a lift taking me up to the first floor of the barracks before running another 100 metre dash again, this time into the armoury, where most of Delta was already suiting up in gear. The Argentinian was giving some last minute directions, giving out orders rapidly but calmly. I started suiting up in STAR equipment—black helmet, vest, guards. Sanchez had asked me to use the USAS-12 automatic shotgun, so I drew that out along with more than enough spare ammunition. My pistol was holstered on my vest, my trusty old USP. While XCOM had superior personal protection gear and weapons, there simply weren't enough for us, at least not yet. We were still being sent out as Alpha and Bravo squads were undergoing intense training with their latest equipment. They were under enough strain to be seeing things and their programme was still only half finished, so they were taken out of the response duty roster completely. The only XCOM equipment on us was a desert camo arm-wrap with the XCOM patch and our private rank on it. The 3rd of January happens to be Delta's turn—my turn.

When the last man to gear up was done and reprimanded, we made a mad dash together towards Hanger Bay 2, passing through Mission Control with Central Officer Bradford, now in command due to the absence of the commander (he was still not at base according to the routine orders),nodding in acknowledgement and approval of our fast response. Now I knew what the important looking catwalk was for, having walked it on my first day to get to Briefing Room 3. As I passed by Mission Control, I could see the look on the keyboard monkeys' faces, and on Bradford's. Before the alert, they were a little more casual, but the room had suddenly become an orchestra of stiff, square shoulders and rock-hard faces. Many of them were saluting us. I caught a glimpse of something green on a window appearing before the globe at a corner of my eyes, but I could not take a good, hard look, and even if I did, there was a lot of static interfering with the holographic projections.

We were on the troop transport in half a moment, all strapped in the can and ready for transfer. The troop transport was designated the SR-77H, nicknamed the Skyranger. According to my basic training, it was originally for strategic reconnaissance, as its codename implies, but was refitted for troop transport, capable of carrying a squad of 10, or squeeze in 20 soldiers like a can of tuna if it needs to be done. Thankfully, there was two Skyrangers so the chance of that was unlikely. The catch to the Skyranger was its speed—it could cross an entire continent in little more than 15 minutes, using 5 top-of-the-line rocket engines. The Skyranger was almost a space vehicle with such a velocity and its own life support. While it could easily outrun a missile, it was still outfitted with two miniguns to be operated by the co-pilot, if its specs weren't overwhelming enough.

That said, we had precious few minutes to breathe and think before the missions start, to psyche ourselves and each other that alien contact won't be so bad, that for all we knew, we were heading towards the planet's first intergalactic party, with a green-skinned space babe jumping out of a giant cake and such. All hope for that was dashed, when the holographic projector near the cockpit of the plane started flashing with the frank space-babe-less face of Central Officer Bradford, our acting commander. At the very least, he seemed confident enough.

"You're being deployed to Germany. At 1900 Hours Zulu, several unidentified objects fell to Earth. After ruling out the possibility of a downed satellite, we now believe these objects to be… extra-terrestrial in nature. Shortly after impact, German officials receive reports of mass hysteria and freak weather around the impact zone, then things went dark. At 2100 Hours, a chopper carrying a German recon team went down in the area after they reported being fired upon." Our intel started coming in, in the form of our acting commander. As the military branch of XCOM is small compared to the armed forces, his title was not general-big, but merely CO-big. "Our mission is to assess the situation on the ground, ascertain the current status of the Germ recon team and investigate the extra-terrestrial objects. Central out."

Upon hearing this, I could almost touch the cold sweat in the air, even if everyone seemed calm and business-as-usual. I was certainly contributing as the Small Man had returned with a vengeance, firing green things at me, a small version of the egg-like object found on the satellite survey displayed for us. I shivered, but stopped myself quickly lest someone saw me in my less-than-normal appearance.

"Aw hell." Ben Washington exhaled his disappointments, "looks like we'd have to get dirty after all. As long as we're not shooting at people, it's all fine." He was in MARPAT, Interceptor body armour, helmet and guards. He had an integrated Landwarrior system on, something still quite up to date, but being seceded by Chinese models as our resident Chinese soldiers, Li Mei Li and Stanley, showed.

"Ray-guns or AK-47s, we'll still get the job done, I trust." Squad commander Sergio Sanchez said, hoping to inspire all of us, "we're the best the planet has to offer, and by baby Jesus and Mary we will get the job done. We-" He was interrupted by a communique through his earphone. He pressed it deeper into his eardrum for clarity.

"We're landing on the streets of Munich." He informed us after removing his finger from his earphone, then asked if we have any input on the strategy we ought to use. No one said anything. All I could suggest was to take cover behind cars, especially the larger ones, such as buses, trucks or even reinforced police or military vehicles. Midori said nothing. In the dim light, I could see that she was disturbed. For a junior officer in the JDGF Airborne, she had far exceeded herself—her suggestions were implemented into the standing orders of even Mission Control itself. But this time, she was silent.

"I just want to get this done and go to sleep." Stanley, the commando from Hong Kong, said—clearly betraying confidence in his by-the-book routine manner. He was either acting or ignorant.


	10. Chapter 9: Approach of the Object

Chapter 9: Approach of the Object

"Central, this is Big Sky, looks like we found the crash site." There wasn't much room for conversation. The communication between the chief pilot of the SR-77H and Central Command was also relayed to us.

"Roger Voodoo three-one. Any sign of activity?" It was Central Officer Bradford, currently Acting XCOM Commander. I was hoping for a no. I wasn't ready for an immediate confrontation, jumping out of the plane guns blazing. It was all Hollywood's idiot-trap, made to evolve the human race.

"Negative, nothing's moving down there." The Chief Pilot of 'Big Sky' replied. I was thankful.

"Okay, set her down nearby." And that was it. It didn't take very long for the Skyranger to land. In mid-air, I could feel it switching to vertical landing mode, hovering in mid-air before setting down with a lurch and a bump. This was it—this was it. The time to catch my breath had ended—the time for us to catch our breath had ended. The mission was starting. I unclipped my safety belt and lifted the frame securing my chest, following everyone else. There was no more chatter, only silence, and… something else in the air. Raw fear, an abnormally thick cloud of it, as if the passenger cabin of the Skyranger was gassed with it. I held my USAS-12 shotgun tightly, pointed it down readily, just waiting to move forward.

The Argentinian and American soldiers were the ones leading the charge. Midori and Yegor were right behind them, followed by the rest of us—two Chinese, two Indians, a Nepalese and me, the resident naïve Singaporean.

Then the ramp that formed the entrance to our cabin and into the battlefield opened, a mouth to hell, gaping wide, its jaw resting on the street underneath. The scene that greeted us was unexpected. We were told of objects falling from the sky, but vehicles were on fire, as if hit by Molotov cocktails or RPGs. Then there were those… green things, shaped in the form of people, petrified by one medusa or another. The Small Man was burning swathes of grey matter in my head.

Sergio Sanchez and Ben Washington got down on one knee, guarding either side of our entrance to the roller coaster ride. When all was clear, Ben signalled for us to move out. Midori and Yegor lead the rest of us, their Howa Type-89 and AK-105 respectively up and trained towards the centre, searching for enemies, human or otherwise. I raised my USAS-12, followed suit, and so did Krishnabahadur with his aging, ancient M16A2, who was right beside me. There was nothing but the howling wind to greet us, nothing but bellowing smoke and raging fire watching, clashing against the submitting rain, though their gaze felt so real, too real—I felt fear, fear of a kind external to me, fear that was fresh and new, something unfelt before, choking. My helmet felt stuffy all of a sudden. I still preferred going in with my office wear and vest, me and my USP with perhaps a shotgun riding shotgun. "Central, are you getting all this?" It was Ben Washington, doing his designated job as the signaller, though with us all wired up in the latest communications gadget allowing for simultaneous radio communication and transmittance of video feed, it was fast becoming an obsolete role.

"Copy that. We are bombarded with unknown interference, but the enhancements made by Dr. Vahlen and Shen's teams are paying off. Video and audio feed is within tolerable limits." Central Officer Bradford said. I was getting edgy—fallen objects from the sky did not wreck all those vehicles and douse them sheets of fire. There were police vehicles up ahead, eerily unoccupied, "First things first, cover. Whoever did this could still be out there." It seemed as if the acting commander had read my mind.

"Delta five through seven, get behind the bank to the left. Delta eight through ten, get behind the office building to the right. Delta one through four, take the rest and fan out in the middle." The orders were relayed, and we do as we were told. Sanchez was perplexed at the vividness of the orders, as he had expected greater autonomy. As I was getting behind the building to the right, he asked about it, but the answer Bradford gave was that only certain situations called for autonomy, but this was not one of them—with the military branch of XCOM so small, central command, which consists of Central Officer Bradford himself, our Officer-in-Charge and a few others, decided that it could, and should, take direct control at times.

I happened to be Delta-10, as mentioned in the standing orders. I lead the charge and moved quickly behind the office building. I had an idea of what Central Officer Bradford was thinking: A three-point sweep of the area, and I was in the flank. Delta One through four consists of Sergio, Ben, Yegor and Midori. They were meticulously given orders—Bradford seemed the puppeteer type, as many high-flyers were, "Delta-1 and -2, take cover behind the debris up ahead. Good, Delta-1 to the vehicle nearby, -2 to the statue. Watch your front." "Delta-3, move to that vehicle dead ahead, bolster the frontline." It all seemed routine, quite akin to our simulations. No aliens, not even terrorists. Yet there was fear in the air, pungent that I could almost smell it. I had probably inhaled it, because I could feel it inside me.

"Central, I have movement. 30 metres north of my position. Police Vehicle." It was Yegor's voice on the simultaneous communications channel.

"Roger. Proceed to the next vehicle for a better vantage point." It was Bradford's voice. With all that action going on in the middle, I felt passive and lethargic. I was almost caught off-guard when it was our turn, "Delta five through seven, proceed left and watch north from your corner. Delta eight through ten, proceed right and watch north." With my USAS-12 up, I started jogging steadily towards my corner, my teammates just behind me, the rain pattering, matching my heartbeat and, surprisingly, losing.

"Delta-4, go check it out. Double-time it, soldier, there's no cover." I could imagine Midori flying across the battlefield—she'd never looked the soldier type. She had wanted to be a musician. If I knew her type well enough, she had only joined the military due to circumstances, and she was talented enough to become one of the best. It was easy to imagine her in a dress and violin, running across the battlefield. Upon reaching the right edge of the office building, ancient and made of red bricks and tar, I peeked around the corner shotgun-first. Nothing but more road, vehicles and fire. Then there were those… things encased in something green and fibrous.

"Holy hell…" It was her singer's voice, vulgar to fit the circumstances. In the background, I could hear someone struggling, gaggling, choking on his own blood. It was no alien, but it was enough to surprise a Japanese airborne trooper who had experience in peacekeeping.

"What do you see, Delta-4? Report." Bradford sounded like a kid eager to hear the next part of a fairy tale, behind all his professionalism and lingo. We were all children on unfamiliar grounds. I waved for Krishnabahadur and Aditya Rushdie to go low and watch the corner with me, in case the same thing that caused that someone to choke on his own blood decided to do the same to us. I was as anxious as Bradford to know what Midori had in her story.

"Looks like one of the recon teams, sir. It looks like something…" _Something what?_ My head was beginning to spin. The choking and gaggling had stopped. Then there was static, deaf-inducing static above the already maddening static that was half-overwhelming the comms channel we were all sharing.

"HILFE" Something growled on the comms channel, someone I didn't know. It sounded unfamiliar, nothing human, and the static only made it worse. It wasn't a word in any language, or at least any language that I know of. It wasn't English, and neither was it Chinese, Malay or Tamil. I had a feeling it wasn't in Arabic. Then I remembered I was in Germany. I was still getting used to travelling. But it was evident that the weather wasn't. I was cursing the storm, as if it was the same monsoon that followed me from Singapore. The storm wasn't over.

"Is that your man, Delta-4?" Despite his professionalism, I could sense some tension in Bradford's voice. I was hoping that someone had chosen a lousy time to joke, and I had a feeling so did Bradford.

"Negative, sir. That's someone else." And henceforth, all hope was lost in that department.

"HILFE" The growling repeated itself. Taking a look around the men with me, I realised that Aditya, the young Indian corporal, was getting nervous, but the Nepalese Gurkha, Krishnabahadur, looked about as calm and disciplined as he was when he sat stock-still like a general of the army was about to inspect him on the first day. Using Aditya as my barometer, I could tell that it was something not normal even in today's battlefield, where anything's possible. I needed the update.

"Dr. Vahlen, what's he saying?" Bradford was wise to consult the resident German.

"He is saying… "Help me." I never would have guessed, but the good doctor, whom I had only met on a datapad screen, had the advantage in deciphering it. "That radio transmission is coming from somewhere north of the squad's current position. Based on its strength, probably from inside the structure."

"Thank you, Doctor. Delta, advance and infiltrate that building." Bradford continued, eager to flip the pages of this fairy tale, which had turned into a ghost story, "Delta one through four, proceed to the front. Delta five through ten, go up north and secure the sides." There was no mention of a backdoor, but I remembered the map that was briefly shown to us during briefing—the building to the north was cornered around the back by others. We were on the edge of an industrial sector that shares a border with a commercial district, which was obvious from the bank and office building we had to dance around.

I peeked around the extreme corner—nothing. Whatever was falling from the skies were very precise to the streets it wanted to visit. I waved my mini-squad forward. Being the third in command, I took up the role of squad leader on impromptu. Together, we started running upwards. I took cover behind a dumpster, and put up a fist to stop the rest, who quite readily hid behind a sturdy Mercedes, their guns to the fore, unflinching, though I could see from the corner of my eyes that Aditya was feeling bothered by what was going on in the middle.

"Central, I got a lot of blood here." It was Sergio Sanchez, Squad Commander, whose voice was flat, passive, and it wasn't just because English wasn't his second language. He was either still pissed or enthralled by the bizarre nature of the operation.

"Roger. See where it's coming from." Bradford replied.

"Central, I think I found another one of the recon team. Or what's left of him. But this doesn't make sense… Looks like he's been dead for a week." Sergio reported. He sounded exactly like he enthralled by the bizarre nature of the operation. His way of putting it was horrible though. Either that or my way with words was weak. His description floated in my head. Started playing with my mind. I started imagining things. I could see a man swarming with maggots, half eaten. The Small Man was standing over him, with flesh in its mouth. I started feeling faint, dizzy.

"Even more perplexing is the cause of death. It appears that he was eviscerated when something burst out of him from the inside." Dr. Vahlen's self-aware voice had made it all the worst. The fear in the air was seeping into me. It felt like I was being mind-raped. I imagined the Small Man scooping out a mound of flesh from a week-old corpse on the floor. I signalled for my mini-squad to move on, as the coast seems to be clear, inasmuch as my wounded mind could perceive. Gazing from the corner of my forward-looking eyes as usual, I could see that even my Grade-A Gurkha was beginning to flinch.

"Sir, I have visual on the object. Permission to approach." It was Yegor. I had a bad feeling, the way he said 'object'.


	11. Chapter 10: Jets of Green

Chapter 10: Jets of Green

"It's the only cover between you and the building. Permission Granted." One of the few golden moments when our squad actually made a decision. When we get back, I might actually throw together a hamper for him, or at least a glass of Italian wine from the bar. He had asked permission to check out one of the fallen objects—I still had very little idea of how it even looked like, nor how large. The picture that was given to us did not have the same clarity I was used to back in the police, being marred with static and distortions.

Up ahead, as we were jumping from car to car, moving forward, I spotted the ending of the building we were hiding behind, separating the office building from another structure to the north that looks like an industrial-age sweatshop, with brick walls and windows several stories high to put anyone within in awe. I signalled my squad to take up positions to secure my side of the road, guarding the flank of Sergio's group. I had received nothing from Central Officer Bradford so far, an utter surprise, considering his micro-managing methods. My guess was that he does it selectively, preferring where there was the most action.

* * *

"Is there anything on the scanners?" Bradford consulted his science advisor off the shared communications channel—also head of research—Doctor Vahlen. She was in mission control herself. She was a triple-degree holder, and a doctor in theoretical physics—an ideal for a position that requires pretty much a working understanding of the entire universe, or at least the entire working understanding of the universe from the perspective of a bunch of star-gazing apes.

"Nein, but we are picking up emissions from the objects consisting mainly of x-rays and trace gamma rays." She reported from her position in the science section of missions control, after taking reports from her own people. Noticing Bradford's expression from the mention of radiation, and sensing the common folk belief coming out of him, she added: "the emissions are harmless."

"Continue scanning for those radiation," Bradford said, straightening his military uniform, which was changed from his native British officer's outfit to that of XCOM's, which looks almost civilian, as if the original staff that stayed with XCOM throughout since the XILAU days could not fathom the military uniform. It consisted of a dark brown pants, a white office shirt and tie plus a green sweater with the unit patch and epaulette rank on. It was something he was unused to. He was only glad that the uniforms the troops had to put on were up to standard and functional, "we won't want a repeat of last time." While Bradford wasn't there, he had read the files on the very first mission undertaken by XCOM, a disaster used as a spook story amongst the personnel in XCOM. No one knew what happened, but there were speculations. All he and the science team knew was that there was X-ray and other forms of increased background radiation coming from the UFO.

* * *

"Talk to me, soldier. What is it?" Bradford's voice said when Yegor presumably reached the object. Me and my Indian and Nepal squadmates were already in position. I could see the Russian behind me., just past another police squadcar, deserted as usual.

"I got no idea what this thing is, but I can confirm that it's no satellite." He said over the radio. Taking a moment's glance at the object he was hiding behind, I saw it—something lighted up in green, a jagged egg-like thing that looks ominous enough it looks like it was also designed in part to demoralise. I was amazed by Yegor's bravery. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that they were responsible for the people encased in green. Yet… there were people like that far from the objects… I had seen them earlier, a full building away from the objects. The fear in the air was invading me even more. I felt like shouting, but kept my trap shut. Tendrils in the air, reaching into my nose and mouth.

"Roger. Alright Delta squad, you're almost to the building. Keep moving. Delta five through ten, secure the sides." Bradford ordered, and we started moving again. I signalled my two mates to move. Around the side of the building from where the ghost transmission was coming from, it was dark. The lights were out around there, with only the dim lights from the surrounding buildings to do the job, and they weren't. It made me insecure, and that was something coming from an Iraq veteran and regular crime-killer. Taking a look around, I realised that there was a lot of windows on the buildings surrounding us—I saw factories and another office building facing the entrance we were supposed to guard. While the vicinity had long been scanned with GPS and whatever else a secret alien-fighting organisation could muster up, I still had my doubts. I always had my doubts. It was the only reliable thing I had.

"Delta five through ten is in position. Okay, now let's get inside." Bradford ordered in his chessmaster routine, "Delta-1, there's a window in front of you. Scout ahead. Delta two through four, take position behind the door. Prepare to take whatever measures necessary for a safe breach." Cue the choir of affirmatives and agreements.

"In position. Looks clear." Delta-1, or Ben Washington's voice said. I could imagine him standing by one of the awe-striking cathedral windows, peeking in. I remembered his once-proud American uniform and war-gears. I saw the weariness in his face. I wanted to get him through. If only I wasn't as helpless as I was, straightjacketed by discipline and duty. I was positively drowning in fear that was not natural. I could feel something wrong was up in the air. It wasn't even the instincts I'd built up over the years from conducting raids on drug smuggling rings and human traffickers. Barely. It was half the fact that we were dealing with the unknown, juggling entirely unknown variables, and half… something else.

"Roger that. Delta five through ten, hold your positions. One through four, breach the front."

* * *

Sergio Sanchez, the Squad Commander, nodded to his Japanese squadmate, Midori. _Let's do it_. For a girl her size, who was quite ordinary in appearance and professed an inclination to music instead, she was quite easily able to knock the door down by kicking it. Sergio threw down a smoke grenade to cover their advance and whispered for a flash, which Yegor provided quite readily. They had all done this a million times before. It was their only comfort in the abyssal unknown they were in. When the flash detonated, they rushed in, guns up and ready for anything, though anything was pushing it. Ben Washington jumped through the Achilles heel of the giant window confidently, smashing glass like a Hollywood actor, except in reality. He landed nearby and got behind some cargo stacked up on pallets and covered in blue protective sheets—it was more than a metre thick, made of something hard. _Good enough, as long as it isn't something remotely juvenile_. The rest took up positions—Sergio behind a forklift, an obvious choice, Yegor behind a stack of boxes two pallets thick. Midori took cover behind some drums. _Better than nothing_. It was a warehouse. It took no time for them to realise.

Out of the grey smoke, the Russian saw something, something human at the far back of the warehouse. He quickly trained his AK-105, thinking that it could be one of them, one of the aliens, but it looked far too human. "Hilfe…" An anguished, but definitely human voice resonated in the warehouse. It was the obvious hint as to who he was. He was the ghost transmission on radio. Taking a closer look, he realised that the man was in green camouflage uniform. Black tactical vest. Yegor Moskva quickly identified that he had a combat shotgun—An old Remington 870 model, a staple of the European Union which was crumbling and becoming the new third world. There was a grenade in his other hand. Yegor hand-signalled the contact to the others.

"Central, we have eyes on the target. He's armed." Yegor took the initiative to report the contact. He went back into deep cover. It was no alien, he knew that, "I think it's a hostage situation."

"I don't think so. He is armed, you said." Sergio countered with his flat voice, whispering. It would be a highly unusual hostage situation if the hostage was given his weapons, a grenade for that matter—if the hostage was desperate enough, he could easily blow he and his captors up easily, "he could be a terrorist masquerading as a friendly."

"He could be coerced." It was Delta-10, or the resident detective, Raven Chua. He'd dropped in unexpectedly. His words held a bit more weight, having spent 8 years in a fresh new criminal frontier.

"Delta-1, -2 and -4, get into position nearby, but do not approach." No one had any idea what was going on, not even the man who had an eagle eye's view of the situation. The illusion of control and the comfort in routine was quickly breaking, shattering. "Delta five through ten, get ready to force entry on my mark."

"Doctor, see if you can communicate with him. Tell him to drop his weapon." Bradford said through the comms feed, his words carefully enunciated, matter-of-fact without jokes, as if he was there himself. It was all a sham, he told himself, some armed thugs could have hit the recon team where they were least expected, took them out and held the survivor hostage. It was not a sentiment Central Officer Bradford had exclusive ownership to.

"I will try. Hallo. Koennen Sie mich hoeren?" Doctor Vahlen said in german, exposing another of her talents—her native language, but it was a mere tip of the iceberg where languages were concerned. "Wir sind hier um ihnen zu helfen. Bitte lassen sie ihre Waffen fallen." But there was no response. In the meantime, Ben, Sergio and Midori advanced, dashing between crates and drums, keeping a low profile, aware that the shotgun and grenade, although not rayguns of some kind, could still hurt. The shrapnels could shear through meat with ease. Ben and Sergio took cover amongst a row of sheet-covered crates long enough to form a wall left of Yegor, a mere 10 metres away from the shotgun and grenade. Sergio was at the edge, behind a sturdy-looking machine as tall as he, peeking with half a eye at the supposed missing german soldier while Ben was watching between a huge crate and Sergio's machine, his view-space barely big enough to squeeze the German through, his H&K SCAR-L at the ready. Midori flanked Yegor to the right, going ahead of him who had to stay behind and wait, running low amidst dangerously poor cover in the form of crates before finding her place behind a water tank of sorts, also a mere 10 metres away from the shotgun and grenade.

"Keep your eyes open. I don't like the look of this." Bradford sounded like he was there. He was almost there—he empathize with his men. He had been in many engagements, Iraq and Afghanistan included, to know the feeling. He knew it enough to feel a punch in the gut in a premonition. His eyes shifted between the camera feeds of his soldiers, worried, unable to voice many things. Cold sweat was pouring down his forehead. He wiped them away before anyone could see. Cold sweat was pouring down everyone's forehead, from the operatives on the field down to the technicians manning their stations at mission control. When everyone was in position, Bradford continued, "Alright. Delta-3, move in and disarm him. Carefully." _Shotgun and grenade_.

No one could see the German soldier's face. He was standing before a low working lamp, the hard shade preventing light from reaching his head. He was stiff. Incredibly stiff, like a living marionette trying to get free of the strings pierced into its limbs. It was what Yegor Moskva could see very much clearly as he ran up cautiously to him, his AK-105 up, trained at the strangest hostage he had ever seen. For some reason, he thought he wanted a hotdog, or some good German sausages. He thought of his girlfriend. _When this is over, I'm getting pissed drunk—with my girlfriend, together_. At the same time, he had a job at hand.

Yegor Moskva got up close to the German hostage, always afraid that he might fire his shotgun or detonate the grenade, but he never did. Reluctantly, he lowered his own firearm, regarded the recon soldier for a moment, failing to connect. There was no tonnes of explosives under his jacket, he recognised, so he was not a trap, not entirely. He had a shotgun and grenade. His arms were stiff, like marionette arms. Yegor Moskva needed to connect with his rescue, talk to him, see his face. It works in his previous experiences in the Russian Spetznaz, where he'd been in all kinds of shit—it worked with village children kidnapped in the rural areas of Sibera, and it worked with political prisoners of terrorist groups. By connecting, they could respond and reciprocate easily, increasing mission success. He needed that. He needed to disarm the shotgun and grenade.

With his left hand, he lifted the lamp and moved it, shined it on his latest hostage. Only, it was not a face that he expected. He could see the muscles of the German soldier's face all tensed up, impossible lines drawn around his eyes. Then there were the eyes—all rolled upwards, as if in great pain, as if dead—Yegor had seen plenty of those. Except, something was off with the eyes connected to the shotgun and grenade. They were almost glowing by themselves, yet he never noticed until he shined the lamp on the bald captive, "My God…" _I really need to get pissed drunk_.

Then there was something else, something moving behind him, something unknown. _Figment of imagination_? He looked over the shoulder of the hostage, and saw something behind a small shelf not far from the shotgun and grenade. Something odd, out of shape, small, somehow disarming. It reminded him of the Small Man, except this one was putting a hand up. _Hello_? It waved its hand, as if almost in salutation. Yegor almost wanted to wave back, but he knew better just by staring into those eyes, those red, alien eyes. Before he could raise his AK-105, the hostage reciprocated; lifted his shotgun quickly. Fired. Sent Yegor Moskva back a metre. There was a bony crack—the German hostage's shotgun arm was broken, likely in a few places, by the recoil as he fired it one-handed, yet he did not scream. Didn't so much as squawk in pain.

Yegor Moskva did not scream either. The Small Man was burnt into his eyes, his mind a complete daze. He felt the pellets had shredded through his stomach and lodged themselves into his back muscles. He could not scream. His diaphragm was in a mess. His arms were numb. Coughing up blood.

A chaos over communication ensued, with everyone talking at the same time and no one replying. Bradford: "What the hell is going on!?" Sergio: "He shot Yegor, sir!" Midori: "Delta-3 is down!" The hostage lifted his unbroken arm, pulled a pin with his thumb. Ben Washington saw the pin flicked off: "Grenade!" Everyone took cover. An explosion, and Yegor was gone, his gurgles of (_Katherina_) blood no longer broadcasting on the intercom. Shrapnels flew all over, shredded some of the crates.

Something moved to the further left behind Ben Washington, in the darkness, emerged quickly as Ben was about to train his SCAR-L on the vague skitters and movement he saw. He was aiming for the chest. _Where the hell_? He aimed down. _What the hell_? The milliseconds Ben Washington took to adjust to the small, low-profile frame of the thing that emerged out of the darkness were milliseconds too late. He never wanted to shoot kids again. Or humans. He got his wish, in a cruel twist of fate. Jets of green overwhelmed his eyes. His helmet broke, melted, useless, unable to stand up against the alien projectile. The jets of green overwhelmed his eyes, replaced by a vision of his family, seen for the last time, "Delta-1 is down!" Midori shouted as Sergio fired a few shots off his M4A1 over the fallen American operative, but whatever had assaulted Ben Washington had retreated back into the shadows like an illusion. Ben Washington slumped onto the crate, but his soul had gone even before he hit the crate.

Jets of green flew from the north towards Midori—it was only with her perfected instinct and reaction that she ducked just in time, but the streams kept coming, pinning her down, threatening to do what it did to Ben Washington to her. Sergio Sanchez was marking the spot from where Jets of green came and took Ben Washington away, "Central! We're taking fire from multiple hostiles!"

"This guy's got me pinned down! Taking heavy fire!" Midori cried into her mic, brave but faltering, punctuated by what sounded like a wildebeest banging into the water-tank she was hiding behind. The jets of green were strong and deadly.

"Delta-2, retreat and help 4!" Central Officer Bradford had to scream his orders quickly, but it was understood in the rush of battle, as if time had slowed down enough to make it discernible to Sergio Sanchez. He quickly rushed towards the middle, where the hostage and the fallen Yegor was, guns blazing. He was running towards the source of the green jets, running but still pin-point accurate from years upon years of training and experience, and his bullets caught… something. Something small in the shadows, a mere silhouette fell backwards, emitting some sort of… death throes. Despite Sergio Sanchez's long track record, he could not help but to stare at the thing, stop for a second. _What did I just kill_? Something on the dead alien's arm exploded without any harmful effect on Sergio. "Delta five through ten, get in there and help them!"

* * *

It was our call. Throughout the ensuing struggle inside the warehouse, we had taken cover beside the right-side door, a single door but good enough as either a chokepoint easy enough to cover or an entrance good enough for a tiny group such as the 3 of us, "Delta-8, bust the door down." I ordered—he had a small explosive charge just for that purpose. The door we had appears too sturdy to break down quick enough. Aditya Rushdie took something out of one of his pouches. His explosive charge. But something exploded, before he even placed it. Before I knew what happened, I saw that a bullet had ripped through the back of his neck through to his throat and out, bypassing his helmet, "Sniper! Take cover! Central! We have a sniper! Delta-8 is wounded!" I screamed into the mic as me and Krishnabahadur rushed to hide behind a car just a few metres behind us. I couldn't bring the fallen Aditya along. He had fallen forwards onto the door, painting an ugly modernist art on it before falling backwards again onto the door. I could hear his choking, him drinking his own blood. I wanted to reach him, but I couldn't. Somehow, we were attacked by a sniper despite assurances that there was a lack thereof.

"Roger! Take him out! I need reinforcement into the warehouse ASAP!" Bradford shouted into his receiver. I fired a stray shot with my USAS-12, but it was not intended to hit. It was a red herring, a distraction. I took a peek, saw the shadow of my old silhouette—someone in trenchcoat and fedora. But I also saw a pair of shades, barely discernible in the near-darkness our sniper had plunged himself into. All I knew was that if he's an alien, he'd be one of those from an alien B-movie who looked exactly like a human, dressed immaculately. I preferred to think we were ambushed by a criminal group—it was a high probability, considering that we were in recession Germany. Another shot from him ripped through the air towards me, breaking through the windows of the car. I felt a jolt and a sharp pain in my right shoulder. I was caught in a mousetrap.

"Delta-9, do it." I ordered Krishna through gritted teeth—he had an M16, ideal for longer ranges. _Oh my god My oh God shot I'm shot shot hurts pain_

"Yes." He said, finally breaking his silence. I could feel slickness down my shoulder, but I had to go on—Many people were either dead or dying. I knew a few that I had been quite close to were gone in seconds inside. Raising my shotgun, my shoulder protesting like a full-on riot in L.A, I trained it on the door, covering the Gurkha I had left.

* * *

"Delta-4, you're freed up to move! Advance west!" Bradford continued his stream of orders, and his authority held strong. Midori went away from her protective water tank and back near where Ben Washington had fallen, keeping a respectable distance away. The jets of green had become her worse nightmare. If there was a phobia for the colour green, she had just caught it.

"Watch my back!" Sergio shouted at Midori, his flat voice projecting over both radio and verbally. After being satisfied that there was nothing in the shadows in front to replace the thing he had just killed, he turned left, trained his rifle at the small shelves he had glimpsed Yegor was looking at over the hostage's shoulder earlier. His trigger finger was only half a breath away from pulling it. But there was nothing, nothing to shoot. Whatever it was that Yegor saw had migrated elsewhere. A flash of green. Sergio had seen it too many times to gape at it. He hid behind the small shelves for the little cover it could provide, "hostile, west!"

Midori pulled a grenade from a pouch on her tactical vest, getting off the pin quickly, "Screw it!" And she lobbed the grenade over Ben Washington's body and the huge cover he was hiding in. The grenade was a high-explosive grenade, more than enough to incinerate whatever was hiding in the general vicinity north-west. A huge explosion rang out. The warehouse acted like an amphitheatre, and a small-framed thing flew due south. Midori could barely catch it. Didn't have time—their sub-squad was cut down to size by half and she had to look around, "hostile down." Sergio continued his search, and saw something flit by at the north-west corner. He opened fire, but missed—his eyes had missed what he was shooting at too.

"X-rays! There's a build-up of X-rays! It's their equipment!" Dr. Vahlen exclaimed over the communications channel, having clearly had an epiphany, "there is another build-up east."

"Look out Delta-4! There's another one coming behind you!" Bradford shouted, alarmed by Vahlen's discovery. On a window, he could see that the X-ray build-up was rather close to Midori Koto, travelling behind her, taking a position behind some blue-sheet covered crates near her water tank. Bradford's warning had scarcely registered when there was another jet of green. Sergio abandoned his chase of the phantom at the northwest when he heard Bradford over the radio, but when he got out into the open to the low working lamp again the only thing he was on time for was the slaying of Midori Koto.

There was another explosion but it barely shook the Squad Commander. Unbeknownst to him, something had gone off amidst Delta-5, -6 and -7, disabling their weapons. Video and audio feeds were somehow cut off between them and everyone else as well. Jets of green could be heard outside the door they were supposed to breach through. Screams of fear. Shouts of helplessness. Then silence.

The Small Man who sneaked up behind her had fired a few of its green projectiles at her back—backstabbing her. A shot landed square on her right scapula, another had melted away the ceramic plates around the middle of her back, but before it could do any worse than it already was, the streaks of green stopped abruptly. Midori Koto fell nonetheless despite the small mercy, slumping down over the drums she had taken cover behind, letting off a shocked and surprised, broken scream before falling over; tipping over backwards, her head resting on its side facing Sergio Sanchez, the empty, deathly accusing black eyes staring at him in their owners' fall, crying blood, "Koto!" They had gotten close, becoming close friends rather quickly. Midori reminds Sergio of his daughter. While the Jap plays the Violin, his daughter was an ambitious pianist. The Argentinian veteran soldier had taught her the basics himself, having taught himself a bit for fun, and when the paychecks were fattened enough, he bought her her very own. Midori's own instrument lies in the bunk she was assigned to. _She wanted to be a violinist when all this is over_. Her death had really hit home, more than it should. It felt like his daughter's own death.

"Damn it. It's just you now, Delta-2. The water tank! Flank the enemy!" Bradford's voice, although still as strong as before, had a hint of grief to it, "Delta-2? I know the loss but go!" In the meantime, the thing that killed Midori was slamming the device attached to its arm. By some cosmic accident, it could no longer fire anymore. Pressing and sliding a slender finger over the instrument, the thing opened it up and started tinkering with it, agile, dextrous, quick.

Sergio Sanchez bolted, holding back rage and grief—even in his desperation, he knew he could not succumb to them. He had lost not just Midori, but the others—Yegor Moskva, Ben Washington. He had talked to them, trained with them for almost a week. He remembered the times when his squad was crowded in the rec room, talking, introducing each other, telling stories. Then the other deaths registered. He allowed some rage to slide through. Taking cover behind the north end of the water tank Midori had taken cover behind, he then swivelled out, his M4A1 raised and fired off a few single rounds in quick succession, all of which hit. While the first two 5.56mm rounds miraculously bounced off, the last one penetrated, and the Small Man in the dark fell hard on its side, sliding slightly, unmoving, and the device, opened up and gutted, exploded, taking its arm with it.

* * *

Krishna was firing a few shots, and dodging a few that returned. He was a master of both, yet whoever was detaining us was still kicking. In the meantime, the only thing I was a master of at the moment was to bleed. _Step right up step right up see the amazing copious bleeder_! My shotgun was frozen on my arms, my arms likewise frozen. I couldn't afford to put it down again. I knew I would not be able to raise it again. Wouldn't want to. An idea hit me in addition to the vindictive bullet in my shoulder, "Delta-8, smoke us!" It was not the best move. The smoke was intended for our oh-so-rudely interrupted entrance, but we had to risk it. Even then a smoke was not an immunity injection for bullets. A simple mad-minute tactic could mean the end of one or two of us.

A smoke grenade was quickly laid down. I got up as quick as I could, but my shoulder was no champion. I had to ditch my shotgun. _Pain God help pain killing me never shot before Christ is this how it as hurts_ I reached for the small explosive charge Aditya had dropped in his death and called, in near-delirium, for cover. Planting it, I blasted the mechanism of the steel sidedoor and pulled out my old USP pistol with my left-arm. By now, I was a pushover even for a kid with a gun, much less some alien with a raygun, "Go, go, go!" My left arm shook as I raised it, unable to brace it with my right, which had become numb and cold as a river.

By the time me and Krishnabahadur came into the picture, however, we were nothing but a last minute throw-in, painted on by a half-conscious painter on booze. The only moving thing we found in the warehouse was our Squad Commander, Sergio Sanchez. Then something busted down the left door. _Christ keep it together Raven don't mind the PAIN! Hurts piercing, shearing flame fire in my arm so cold _We took up positions, thinking that there was more coming, but when it became clear that there were none, the 3 of us advanced towards the west side of the warehouse—there was no one else, alien nor human. Bradford's orders became unheeded, not intentionally, but we were half-broken, physically, mentally, emotionally. It never registered, his voice. We were effectively decimated, demoralised. We discovered the hard way that Delta-5, -6 and -7 were killed even before they breached their door. The door was broken open from the inside. Something had escaped, and our squad was in no condition to pursue nor fight. If it could even be called a squad anymore. _How about a family of scared, wounded apes?_

We started with 10. We ended with 3. Well, 2.5.


	12. Chapter 11: The Lonely Violin

Chapter 11: The Lonely Violin

"Delta squad. Delta squad?" A new voice entered the intercom, uninvited but almost unnoticed—It was the voice of a South Indian. I was leaning against a wall nearby, light-headed from the blood I was losing, "This is Doctor Sharma Singh of Medical. I need all of you to search for survivors."

"Is there any hope for that?" Sergio Sanchez replied, pessimistic despite being the squad commander who could and had held us up on his back, at least until the mission sank into an ocean of blood. Being pessimistic though, he was still ahead of the game as I was too injured and Krishna too paranoid about his crates-filled surroundings. There was a pause, as if the good doctor who was, for the time being, merely a voice, considering his words.

"Yes." And it was a big one, a determined affirmative that did not fall flat, but gave some hope. I considered myself an independent man, but these were extraordinary circumstances, and I needed all the tiny little scraps of hope that I could get my fingers on, "Sensors are picking up life signs. Faint, but they're there. Heartbeats and brain activity are being monitored via sensors in your suits and helmet." I was off the wall before I had to stop myself to yelling in pain, "For some reason they are all still giving out life signs. Please check your teammates. Some of them could still be saved!"

"This is Central. Science has confirmed that there is no more alien activity within the area. Skyranger-2 has been launched with medical assistance, science personnel and backup. ETA 12 minutes. Proceed as the doctor advised." Bradford eliminated another primary concern—the mission was truly over, and for the first time in the whole damn thing, I could feel a modicum of control in my hands, or hand, as the other one was nonresponsive.

We bolted outside immediately, each of us checking one man outside first. As we had never gotten close to them, they appeared dead initially. _Idiot! Why didn't you think of that!?_ Putting down my old USP pistol clumsily, I started palpitating the fallen Indian soldier's neck for a pulse, but after several tries I could only assume the worse. I looked at the others, but they were shaking their head. The Indian soldier had suffered a grievous, mortal wound in his chest—the Kevlar on his chest was all but shattered, and several holes were dug out of him and cauterised. I could spot several organs. I was reminded of science class and dissecting frogs. I had seen corpses numerous times in my tenure as a soldier, police officer and detective, but this one was a fresh new scene in a new movie. I started retching but stopped myself. The two Chinese soldiers accompanying him were luckier—they had died from… Knife wounds? Regardless, I dug out a pad from the fallen Indian's helmet that served as the detector for brain activity, and discovered that jolts of strange energy was running across it, whitish and fast, straight unlike electricity. I could feel static on it, "Doctor Singh, I think the sensors here are malfunctioning. Could be the aliens."

We moved on to those inside. My steps were brisk. I wanted to make full use of the control I had before it slips out from my hands again. It felt almost like a desert in the warehouse, not just hot, not just covered with sand but also of death. I felt like fainting, but I preferred to be stubborn. It didn't take long for us to realise that Ben Washington was a goner. His head was blown up beyond recognition. The helmet he wore had lost its front portion. The nightvision and landwarrior visor was completely gone with not a trace left, and beyond that his head was cleaved into two with a huge hole going down the middle. Another thing that was completely gone was his face. The back portion of his helmet was split in two. One of them stuck on for dear life, but I could not find the other one. He was still slump where he was, maintaining a death grip on his H&K SCAR-L. His index finger was still on the trigger, just a hairline from firing it again. I disarmed the accidental trap as carefully as I could under the conditions. I was surprised at myself for succeeding this time as I could feel my need for a fainting couch extremely acutely, "Doctor, same thing here. Either your medical stuff are cheapskate, or the aliens did something." I was starting to slur.

When I was done I walked around to Krishna, who was examining Yegor, the first XCOM operative to get KIA, to spread the news. The Russian Spetznez was no more alive. This stomach was shredded. The grenade did the rest to his body, which was torn all over. Blood pooled beneath him, half-coagulated. I couldn't see his face.

"Delta-9, -10, over here!" It was Sergio shouting, quite uncharacteristic of him. I obliged, pushing with my last reserves. It felt like I could lie down beside my fallen comrades anytime soon. Following the sound of his voice, I found the owner kneeling over the body of the Japanese Ground Defense Force Airborne infantrywoman, Koto Midori. Sergio was measuring her pulse with one hand over her neck and another on her wrist. She appeared fine, except for the blood down her eyes and side of her mouth that resembled the trails of a mass murderer, "she still has a pulse." Which was a message contrary to the blood pooling beneath her.

"Confirmed. Life signs are weak, slightly stronger than the false positives exhibited by the others." The way the medical doctor put it was depressing, but it was the clinical truth of science, "try to stabilise her while help is on the way." We flipped her over, sensing that the damage was all there. The pool of blood did not look like a parlour trick. And sure enough, the back of her vest was all gone, replaced by a messy canyon of flesh. I could see the scattered remains of her right scapula, filled in by remoulded flesh. Amazingly enough, the Kevlar on her back held. The flesh underneath resembled third-degree burns, the meat slightly torn up as if by a rabid Rottweiler and blackened by intense heat. A Rottweiler with a giant blowtorch. I was teetering on the brink of collapse, ready with my passport to Lalaland, but I had a job to do.

Krishna pulled her helmet off to check for head injuries—concussions, fractures, abrasions. I pulled her ruined vest off with Sergio's help. It was difficult as some fabrics of the vest had fused with her skin, a new puzzle from space for the doctors. The same was true for her uniform, which seemed to have become a part of her. Krishna had to assist with his Kukhuri, cutting off her top. In the end, some part of it had to stay on, as pulling the stuck cloth off could cause her to bleed even more. It was beyond anything I had seen in Iraq or in the crimescape of Singapore—those gunshots and shrapnel were mere bruises compared to what Midori had suffered: 2 half-feet gaping craters gouged right out of her. She would be lucky if she could play her violin badly. _There goes her musical prospect_. The best we could do was to clean and sterilize the surroundings of the wounds and bind them out, "Delta-10, -own heart- breathing- erratic, are you sure you- okay?" It was the doctor, and it was the last thing that registered before I stopped registering anything.

* * *

Whiteness. It was the first thing I registered when I opened my eyes again, along with the usual 'am I in heaven' knee-jerk question, though heaven had long become a clichéd fairy tale to me a long time ago. A thought that should have occurred to me within a fraction of a second took seconds, and when I remembered Midori I tried sitting up, only for my shoulder to push me back down. I was groggy. The white reminded me of a hospital, and the hospital reminded me of anaesthetics. I could feel the cold, slithery tentacles of anaesthetics crawling in my veins, but they were quickly dying, falling apart. I tried to form words with my mouth, but what came out were things I couldn't understand myself.

A nurse had long noticed me and paged the doctor before rushing up to me, pushing me back down, as if my shoulder wasn't enough, "Don't, Mr Chua. You'll aggravate it." She sounded Swedish, or Norwegian. She was a beautiful angel sent by God. I hardly cared. The only two things on my mind were my squad and I, with Midori at the head. Turning my head around, I spotted her in a bed beside me, her face all cleaned up, eerily neutral in her deathly sleep. The monitor by her was beeping steadily, measuring her fractured life, telling lies of her stability and avoiding the issue of her musical future. The doctor came up before I could work up the bravado again to try sitting up.

"How's the damage?" My words floated up, almost incoherent, almost visible as a weather balloon between the two heads looking down at me.

"You'll be fine, the bullet passed right through your shoulder muscle. You lost a lot of blood, but you are fine." It was Doctor Sharma Singh. The voice and its accent matched, but the information did not match with my question.

"I meant… Midori." Amazingly enough, I need only babble once before I was understood. The medical staff here had likely seen worse, talked to worse babblers in their life. I was far from a headless chicken trying to croak out a few words, "How is she?"

"Well…" It was never a good sign when the educated types start with the delay tactic. The thrill wasn't appreciated either, "she lost almost half her blood, but that is the easy part. Her right scapula and some parts of her back muscle would have to be replaced with prosthetics. Thankfully, no skin graft is required and-"

"Will she be back to normal?" I hate to be uncivil, but I had to know it. It took the doctor some time to consider my question, but he was not ignorant, quite the opposite. I hated that look of weariness—it was on everybody's face, even when they appeared fine and dandy.

"With our latest medical technology, recovery will take…" He started counting with his fingers, almost like a priest counting the luck or fate of a believer. I had never believed in fortune telling, but the effect he was giving, quite unintentionally, was believable. "two weeks at the most. But she will need a month or two of therapy to use her right arm again and then-" He was not answering my question right. I hate to botch our first meeting and impressions, but I had to stop him.

"I asked, doctor: Will she be back to normal?" I repeated myself, forcing myself to be a little more stern. The cloud of sleep around me, inside me, was making it difficult. It used to be second-nature. The doctor took a deep breath, his eyes closed for a minute, like a guru calculating the future. The turban he wore helped with the impression. In reality, I had pushed him too far. A pang of regret nudged me in the gut—I could feel his thoughts, what he was feeling. The physician who cannot work out a miracle was the worst off.

"No, my friend. Even writing on pen and paper would be problematic. A computer, however, would be no problem, yes... Nothing too demanding." In other words, she would become a paper-pusher, nothing more. I was reminded of her violin. She had brought it along. Now it would remain in its trunk forever, "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing…" I lied, and went quiet. There was nothing more to discuss. It was the end of the road in more ways than one, for more things than one. The only thing I could do now was to wait for a chance to get back at them, at the wretched Small Man who stole music from Midori, the same way that civilisation could suddenly be gone if they could go full-scale on us. _They will_. The only thing I could do now was to wait for a chance to get back at them—an eye for an eye, a saying as old as dirt, but as applicable now as fire. If there was an opportunity to cripple an alien limb, I would take it without a breath's wait.


	13. Chapter 12: Ashes of War Reignited

Chapter 12: Ashes of War Reignited

Operation Devil's Moon After Action Report

* * *

Personnel On Site:

40 German Civilians

02 Siamese Nationals

02 Spanish Nationals

02 Japanese Nationals

20 Landespolizei (German State Police) Officers

08 German Recon Troopers

10 XCOM Military Operatives

Total 84 Personnel

Casualties:

40 German Civilians (23 KIA, 17 MIA)

02 Siamese Nationals (02 MIA)

02 Spanish Nationals (02 KIA)

02 Japanese Nationals (01 KIA, 01 MIA)

20 Landespolizei Officers (20 KIA)

08 German Recon Troopers (08 KIA)

08 XCOM Military Operatives (06 KIA, 02 WIA)

Total 82 Personnel

Survivors:

17 German Civilians (17 MIA)

01 Japanese Nationals (01 MIA)

04 XCOM Military Operatives (02 WIA)

* * *

XCOM AAR Personnel Report

Name/Rank: Private Sergio Sanchez

Appointment: Squad Commander

Squad: Delta

Status: Compulsory psychiatric evaluation, pending results. Operationally Unavailable.

Notes: Citation as first XCOM Operative to successfully engage and achieve victory over an alien taskforce of unknown strength and first human to successfully engage and achieve victory over an alien taskforce of unknown strength. Recommended for promotion to Corporal and recipient of XCOM Medal of Honour.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Midori Koto

Appointment: Squad 2nd Commander

Squad: Delta

Status: WIA. XCOM Military Hospital reports severe conditions in addition to recently discovered coma. Operationally Unavailable (Medical Estimate: 2.5 months - Indefinite).

Notes: Citation as first XCOM operative to engage and kill a hostile alien in XCOM history and first human to engage and kill a hostile alien in world history. Recommended for promotion to Sergeant and reassignment to XCOM Military Administration Branch.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Raven Chua Da Yong

Appointment: Squad 3rd Commander

Squad: Delta

Status: WIA. Operationally Unavailable (Medical Estimate: 2 weeks).

Notes: Tentative citation as one of two first participant in possible human-human hostile exchange during a human-alien confrontation in XCOM and world history. Recommended for promotion to Lance Corporal and reappointment to Squad 2nd Commander.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Krishnabahadur Sahi

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: Operationally Available

Notes: Tentative citation as one of two first participant in possible human-human hostile exchange during a human-alien confrontation in XCOM and world history. Recommended for promotion to Lance Corporal and reappointment to Squad 3rd Commander.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Ben Washington

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: KIA

Notes: To be posthumously promoted to Sergeant and honourably discharged.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Yegor Moskva

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: KIA

Notes: Citation as first XCOM operative to sight and engage hostile aliens in XCOM history and first human to sight and engage hostile aliens in world history. To be posthumously promoted to Sergeant and honourably discharged.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Aditya Rushdie

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: KIA

Notes: Death under investigation. To be posthumously promoted to Sergeant and honourably discharged.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Rajan Kavita

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: KIA

Notes: Death under investigation. To be posthumously promoted to Sergeant and honourably discharged.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Lee Mei Li

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: KIA

Notes: Death under investigation. To be posthumously promoted to Sergeant and honourably discharged.

* * *

Name/Rank: Private Stanley Lau

Appointment: Squad Member (Standard)

Squad: Delta

Status: KIA

Notes: Death under investigation. To be posthumously promoted to Sergeant and honourably discharged.

* * *

Enemy On Site (Based on Latest Data):

05 Unidentified Aliens (03 KIA, 02 Unaccounted)

01 Unidentified Human (Unaccounted)

* * *

The cold, hard facts were in my palm, the working one anyway. The other was still in shock from the bullet that passed through my shoulder. Shortly after I woke up, I learnt that I was out cold for 4 hours—an eternity in the realm of war, especially at the international scale. Then there was something else. They were delaying the AAR until after I woke up. Doctor Singh objected to me moving at first, but I insisted. I was riled up, the first time in years, and I wanted in. In the end, as he had to attend the AAR as well, he offered me a wheelchair. Even though it was my shoulder that was faulty, I did not reject the wheelchair. My legs had taken the opportunity to shut down a little. It felt almost numb down there that I was half expecting pins and needles to come out next. He wheeled me towards the mission control and briefing room 1 himself. There were a lot of people there. Central Officer Bradford, who I noticed had become an XCOM lieutenant, was there along with a few other officers from central intelligence and command, noticeably of lower rank. Doctor Vahlen and Shen was also there in the flesh, no longer disembodied voices prophesying fortune or misfortune. Then there was Sergio who was sitting in a corner, somehow appearing to me slightly smaller than possible when he was one of the buffest man amongst us. Krishnabahadur was with him in the capacity of 3rd Squad Commander. Strangely, Officer-in-Charge Rashid Majid was not around—the OC's presence was normally required in any AAR. I was wheeled next to him, and Doctor Sharma Singh joined his other colleagues in the intellectual realm. They had each brought a second except for the medical doctor. For an insane second, I thought they were going to duel. _Gotta keep my mind calm—calm Raven, for Buddha's sake._

Central Officer Bradford (with another officer of ensign rank handing him a pad):"Let's go over the mission summary again, at least where it's important. Moskva was ordered to disarm the target, spots an alien behind him and is killed by the target. From the west, another alien contact ambushes Washington and kills him. Koto counters the ambush successfully with a grenade, and was suppressed by another alien contact. Sanchez moves north-east to counter successfully, and you went in pursuit of the first alien, am I right?"

Sergio Sanchez (looking up distractedly, almost dazed): "Yes" (others nodded)

Central Officer Bradford: "Outside, Rushdie was killed by a sniper and Chua was wounded in the east. Kavita, Li and Lau were moving to breach into the warehouse. Sanchez was unsuccessful here, and returns to assist Koto, but Koto was downed by another alien ambush, and was in turn killed by Sanchez. The remaining contacts retreats through a door to the west. Mission control loses contact with Kavita, Li and Lau during this period and became KIA. I suspect we'll need several hours to go over all this." He paused for a second before continuing, "first of all, Yegor Moskva. What happened to him?" There was another bout of silence, as no one was sure if they should talk. It was almost as if everyone was guilty in some way for killing him. As it turns out, it was one of central command's ensigns who had to speak up first.

Ensign Gangjeon: "Moskva's video feed shows that he saw the alien—he was the first to see an alien. I think he was shocked." The video was shown on the screen at the head of the room, showing exactly what had happened from the Russian's perspective. 'My God…', his voice had cried, but he had said it long before the alien appeared to him.

"Not only that. As you said, Dr. Vahlen, the target from the German recon team was in shock." Sergio was almost muttering. He had eventually worked up his previous courage to look up at everyone. He was pointing to the screen, "Yegor was shocked at seeing his face." The video was rewound to that moment. 'My God…', Yegor's voice said again. Secretly, I hated hearing it over and over again, and from the looks of everyone, I could tell that they shared that sentiment. I could easily pick off the look of disgust or despair right off their faces even when they were holding back.

"Er—I would like to add." Doctor Singh contributed, "that this hostage, or target, that the operative walked up to is showing signs of intense pain. This is indicated from his face—the eyeballs. However, this is not normal, as the hostage was standing still, like—like a statue. A typical reaction would be shying away from the source of the pain, and to protect the stimulated area. This man shows nothing like that. It is an illness that is both strange and badly placed." I was looking at the video, my eyes fixed on it like determined nails. "My God…" Yegor's voice murmured again, like the disembodied voice of a ghost. It was then set on loop by the same Ensign Gangjeon who ordered it.

"I concur. While circumstantial evidence is generally weak, this 'illness', Doctor Singh," It was Doctor Vahlen's turn. It was quickly becoming a medical seminar, "could only be associated to the aliens. It is a fair assumption that the German soldier was fit for deployment, and throughout his time on site, not to mention his 'illness' occurred on site." I was looking at the video, over and over again. The camera shifting focus from the pained German's face to the thing at the back. The video feed was slightly distorted, but good enough that the alien could clearly be seen. It was holding up a hand, and from that hand… Even more wavy distortions around the air.

"What is that?" I said, my voice a little hoarse. I wasn't sure if I had drunk any water or not, but it didn't matter anymore.

"That's one of those _demonios_ who attacked us." The newly promoted Corporal Sanchez said through his gritted teeth, like he was holding back something. I had seen that before, a couple of times. Back in good ol' crime-ridden Singapore. As heart-felt as it was, it wasn't what I was looking for.

"No, that wavy stuff coming out of its hand, you see it?" I pointed it out with my able arm, and ordered the computer to freeze at the moment when it could best be seen. It took a few tries, but eventually I got it. I was still spinning from the dope in my blood.

"No, I don't see a—wait…" Somehow, I managed to calm Sergio with this. After some time, people were starting to see what I see. It was almost impossible to tell to begin with anyway, without a good chew from the XCOM film department or something. The video was then played again, and people began to see connections between the alien and the German soldier who shredded Yegor's stomach, most particularly Doctor Vahlen.

"What are you suggesting?" Doctor Vahlen asked, after squinting for the wavy effect for a bit. Almost everyone was looking at the screen, but by now I doubt they were looking at the wavy distortion emanating from the alien's hand. The eyes of the alien was hard to get away from.

"I'm suggesting that the alien was doing something." Before I thought my words through, I let it out. It felt like my thoughts had lost some effects that way. Thankfully, I had time to amend, "it could be responsible for what happened to the German soldier and Yegor. I can't think of any other reason why he'd shoot him."

"What are you talking about? Mind control?" Doctor Anders, a guy from the science division tagging along with Doctor Vahlen, said quite reactionary. Not that I blame him. We were all venturing into unknown territory. It would be like investigating the involvement of the Illuminati in Singapore, "that's pseudo-science. There could be some other-"

Something exploded in the room. As I wasn't looking around, I didn't know what it was. My left hand absent-mindedly reached for the pistol that was no longer on me. Looking around, I realise that Sergio bolted to his feet fast and angry enough to knock over his wheeled office chair. Then it came to me that the explosion was his fist pounding the table, "What happened out there was not 'pseudo-science'!" He was pointing an angry, missile finger at the screen, at the _Demonios_ as he called it. My wild mind was half-unhinged by anaesthetics, and I actually thought his finger was going to punch a hole through the projection screen. Get a grip, Raven—it was over, that operation…

"Corporal!" Bradford had followed suit. It felt like school once again, "I suggest you grab your seat and cool down!"

"Grab a rifle and join us, egghead! Before you insult my man again!" Sergio ignored Bradford, who was essentially the commander of XCOM until the actual guy came over, and continued shouting. This was what anger could do to men. Even the best were only human, that point was proven this instance.

"That's not what I meant!" Doctor Anders retorted. I saw the shock on his face, like a kid who accidentally knocked over a priceless glass vase. The room was quickly devolving into a shouting match, as fragile as glass.

"I sympathise with the loss of life but-" Someone, I saw a little into her talk to be Doctor Vahlen, tried to salvage the situation.

"Don't give me that 'but'!" Doctor Vahlen's attempt was hopeless. The magic word 'but' wasn't entirely a good choice. The missile finger of Sergio was pointed accusing at her.

"Sergio, please, don't do this anymore, it's not helping." I chipped in a little, but I was too weak to get noticed. Heck, I was in the middle of a struggle to even stay awake. Part of it was the drugs, and the other half was just me trying to get a grip. Krishna was silent, and very still. His eyes were closed. I could almost get inside his head—the battlefield and planning room was his place. He had nowhere else, and certainly not in an argument.

"Sit down, Corporal, before you're Private again!" Bradford shouted. Beyond the heat of combat I could see on his face that was entirely normal even if we were in a briefing room, I could see frustration at the loss of control. He was supposed to be the acting commander, after all.

Silence. Unexpected silence. Everyone started looking at the door, as if it had casted a magic spell on the room. I turned around to see a few stars—literally. Someone else had entered the briefing room, someone with enough presence to command silence where noise was the only constant. It was a grey-haired man in desert camo, and his uniform was slightly ripped and dirty from combat. The stars I saw was on his chest. He was a 2-star general. I could barely recognise his uniform, but I thought of it as Greek. It made sense, as many European nations started joining the push for a terror-free world during the clean-up operations that could mean the end of terrorism from the middle-east. I thought I recognised the rank insignia to be Greek, but I wasn't sure.

What was sure was that everyone was children to this man, and we were caught like kids in a classroom trying to start a fight.


	14. Chapter 13: Nikolaos' Takeover

Chapter 13: Nikolaos' Takeover

"So, this is the mighty Extraterrestrial Combat Unit?" The aging but still strong and powerful 2-star general chided, introducing himself with a reprimanding tap and punchline, "how the mighty have fallen." His words felt precisely measured, the way a Traditional Chinese Medicine master would measure his herbs with a weighing machine. Some measure of scolding balanced with an equal part of complement, with the spices of disappointment thrown in for extra effect. I could taste every bit of it. I had no part in the squabble that transpired between the various departments of XCOM, yet I could feel shame and regret. I would bet a month's salary anytime that the rest of the briefing room was feeling horrified at both themselves and what this new, subtly dominating presence asserted.

"Do not mind me, gentlemen and ladies." The 2-star general continued, approaching the conference table that was set up specifically for the meeting. Flanking the general, I saw one of those expressionless agents with their brick wall posture and my Officer-in-Charge, Rashid Majid. For a moment, I looked on his chest and noticed that he had been promoted to corporal along with Sergio. While it was tempting to think he didn't deserve the extra chevron, I remembered his hand in everything, the elusive helping hand that flew all over the backstage. He was responsible for training and educating us, after all. The general claimed a chair for himself and sat down, putting his hands up on the table, interlacing his fingers, "Please, do continue to fall. Argue it out. Just do not forget to pick yourselves up."

The silver bullet to all arguments. A bit of deconstruction and reverse psychology, thrown in with the indisputable authority of the general, which would be unshakable in an organisation that marshals the best. For a moment that felt like a session of musical chairs, everyone froze. One by one, they sat down again. I remained still. Sat very still. For some reason, it felt like moving would somehow go against this general who suddenly entered the room and swept the floor quite effortlessly.

"This is Ypostratigos Nikolaos Alexandros Markos." Rashid, still flanking the general like an honour guard, introduced the new presence. As if working up some dramatic effect, he paused, but I was sure I could see and hear him swallow some nervous saliva, "our newly appointed overall Commander of XCOM."

"Thank you. Now, please, continue." Nikolaos said gracefully, a little less tight and strict in his voice. Instead, he went the opposite direction. He was almost whispering, but his voice carried through. With no competition and good experience, there was no need for him to raise his voice, it seemed. Still, I kept my breath light. In my slight delirium, I was afraid to offend anyone with it, now that an extra, rather important chair was pulled up. Despite the Commander giving his permission, there was still a pregnant silence echoing in the air.

"Mind control. In some way, the alien was controlling the German soldier." I broke the silence, and I surprised even myself. I feel more inclined towards falling asleep and letting the nightmare pass. A handful of seconds were enough to make me think. I went back in time, 4 hours back to the scene of the crime. Skulls split open, people shredded apart. Screaming. _Screaming_.

"Doctor Anders—if you would let me." Doctor Vahlen's voice snapped me out of it. I found my left fingers caressing my wedding ring as I listened, just barely. When my eyes returned to her, I realised she had grown a lot taller—no, she just stood up, "Raven, am I correct?" I nodded gingerly. The skin of my face felt tightened. It felt like the rubber skin of a surgery dummy, "what you contributed earlier has potential. While I do not believe the alien possess any psychic powers, I… believe there is a strong possibility that the alien was controlling the German soldier. There are many methods on Earth that are employed by one species to control another. Pheromones, chemical agents, parasitic manipulations—with the aliens we could expect the use of certain technologies not yet known to us." I nodded half-knowingly, pretending to understand it all, when my mind was chugging smoke out by now. "Which reminds me," She turns to Central Officer Bradford first out of habit, before realising her mistake and correcting it by turning to the Greek general. "Commander, my team has begun preliminary scans of the subjects brought in from Germany. The results even at this stage are enlightening. In summary, they are extensively enhanced with internal implants, and the proportion of the size of their brain to their body as well as the complexity of their brain suggests intellectual and mental capabilities beyond ours." _No shit girlie they just took out most of us with half the manpower_. Back to me again, "yes, there is a strong possibility that what you say is true, Raven." With this, she returned to her seat. I could see a smile of victory plastered tight on her face, as though it was all over with the aliens. I knew way before that this woman's priorities weren't exactly the same as ours.

"Great, now that that's out of the way, we should continue with the AAR. If we may, commander?" Bradford said, quick to adopt a new stance of respect for the man who would likely be the highest ranking officer in the entire XCOM organisation. It was expected, as the former acting commander was military. In the military, the very first thing you learn wasn't how to shoot a rifle. Neither was it to survive in the forest either. The very first thing you learn in the military was to know who's the alpha, the boss. Nikolaos gestured for us to continue. From his face, he looked like he had been with us on the mission in Germany, "Biology and mind-control aside, what we know for certain is Yegor's death." A solemn pause for the dead. For once, I noticed that one of Bradford's man from mission control was taking minutes. "He is KIA by shotgun and fragmentary grenade. Doctor Singh, your medical staff performed the autopsy. Anything special?"

"The autopsy reports of Private Yegor Moskva is consistent with the field observations." Doctor Singh was looking through his datapad. Beneath his turban, behind his pad, I could bet that he was holding back his emotions. Before, I'd hoped a little that he was an insensitive bastard so that I'd have someone to unload the baggage on. No more—we were all suffering together. If anything, Sergio had done that for me. Unintentionally, he performed his duty as my squad leader that way. It was one way of doing it. The medical doctor puts his pad down before proceeding further, "There is something I'd like to add. I must insist that we should make the safety of our field operatives the top priority! The armour Yegor puts on is inadequate. This is not confined to Russian equipment. Private Ben Washington—his helmet is completely broken, and it does not protect him any better. Something must be done, or I fear that our morgue would start holding more than it should." At this, I could tell from across the table that Sergio was flaring up again.

"I think your morgue is the last thing on our mind." The rocket hands on the table that was Sergio's were balled into fists. When he said it, he said it squeezed, like when he was choking the life out of someone

"I meant the casualty rate would remain high. I—" The doctor was caught offguard, and almost surprised, as if he was frozen for a second in a moment when his finger was about to be snapped by a mousetrap, "I apologise, _nanpar_." He must have felt like a matador trying to fight a bull. It certainly felt that way for me in round one versus Sergio.

Another moment of silence. Sergio was rubbing his head. So was a few others, "No, it's fine." He said, fortunately—for himself and the rest of us, "Majid, how does XCOM's body armour fare against the Chinese models?" The XCOM body armour, as it was presented to me during orientation a week or two back ago, uses no new materials but was far better in that it provides significantly more coverage. It protects the entire chest and back area, the sides of the torso and the shoulders. The helmet operates on the same principle of enlarged coverage, being slightly larger, but the resemblance to the typical modern helmet was unmistakable. The XCOM body armour was slightly heavier, but the design used made it bearable as it focuses on the use of shapes to deflect bullets rather than sheer volume to blatantly block them.

"I believe that question should be directed to me." Doctor Raymond Shen, the silent, balding and aging engineering from (if I remember) Hong Kong, finally spoke up, his articulation of the English language self-aware and bland, "The X-20 Huangti armour kit provides a 55% increase in coverage, and is about 5 times as successful as the Chinese model at protecting its user. However—computer, freeze mission 2 video from Ben Washington's perspective at 10 minutes 25.554 seconds—" At the chief engineer's command, we saw the dreaded colour of green again, right before it hits Ben Washington and split his head and helmet in two, "it hasn't been tested against this." He waved at projection screen, "their technology is far beyond ours. I fear that every protection we put into field use would be useless against this."

"Then we have our work cut out for us, doctor." Doctor Vahlen regarded her counterpart.

"It's better than nothing. Midori survived because of it." I threw out the consolation prize. It truly was better than running out there naked like a university freshman on his first day. There was a murmur of consent from Sergio. It reminded me, and I started hoping that he remains in his seat, murmuring. He'd changed for the worst after our first mission and disaster, going from a beautiful extinct volcano to a Krakatoa that could blow at any moment.

The AAR went on even longer. Next, there was an inquiry on how Midori survived, and Sergio brought up a thing or two about what he saw. There was a video from his perspective, showing Midori's attacker opening up the device on its wrist, which we identified to be the weapon that slew 6 of us. It was tinkering with the wrist-mounted weapon. A few of us had an idea of what was going on, and Sergio nailed it in the head. The weapon was either jammed or broken, and it could be connected to how Midori survived.

Then all that attention was brought to bear on me, as the AAR moved on to my point of view, and our mystery sniper. Doctor Vahlen confirmed that there were no radioactive emissions from that area, especially the trademark radiation that seems to be connected with our aliens, X-ray. I confirmed that it didn't look like one of them. The video from me and Krishna's end showed a rather tall man in trenchcoat, fedora and shades, pointing a sniper rifle at us. The sniper rifle was later identified as the German G-22, otherwise known as the Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Magnum. It was terrestrial in origin, hands down. The consensus was that we'd have to watch out for people as well as aliens. _Great job, ape-men, fighting amongst each other even at the end times_. Still, I could not help but to look at the video stills of the sniper and find something off about him. In the end, I decided that it was just the drugs and combat stress.

Then there was our Indian and Chinese friends, who died out of sight. While one of them was killed 'conventionally' by the aliens, the other two died under more mysterious circumstances. One was slit in the throat. The other was backstabbed. Both knife wounds were matched with Rajan Kavita's knife. The potential political implications and fallout for this was enormous. Doctor Singh and Doctor Shen looked uneasy at the mention of the facts. China and India were always at odds with each other, resulting in frequent border violations and skirmishes. They were always invading each other's sphere of influence. There was a chance this conflict could and was already brought into XCOM.

The only other facts that rescued XCOM from this possibility were few, but important. There were signs of alien tampering. The weapons of the fallen XCOM operatives were found to be inoperable when help came. They were sparkling with the same white energy found on their life sign sensors. Bits of alien material were found. Welcome to the first intergalactic crime scene. And we were little more than London Bobbies walking the beat. Still, this matter was made classified by order of our new commander, especially to Indian and Chinese operatives. Politics.

"We need ways to counter them." Nikolaos said after standing up so that we had to look up to him. It's been an hour since we started. The XCOM express just wasn't any smoother than in a regular military unit. There were either barriers in our way, or the driver (or drivers) of the bus tend to go in a loop, "Ideas?"

"My team will autopsy the alien corpses to discover weaknesses, in addition to understanding their physiology." Doctor Vahlen was quickest to respond. She must have known long ago what must be done.

"The aliens—somehow, they could take a few rifle bullets and still stand." Sergio mentioned inattentively. His mind was still there, it was obvious from his eyes.

"Yes, that is curious indeed." The doctor held her chin in contemplation. I could understand the confusion. The aliens we fought against were bite-sized. From the videos I saw, they looked malnourished and naked. They appeared weak enough that a punch in the guts might kill them. Yet, we were massacred.

"That will do. What about engineering?" Nikolaos moved the discussion further, this time his eyes on Doctor Shen. It felt like the conclusion, and I was grateful. My butt was beginning to get sore, and I was beginning to love my hateful hospital bed again.

"We are busy manufacturing even more of our standard equipment at the moment, commander." Doctor Shen replied. It wasn't very encouraging to me. From what they said, our 'standard equipment' were little more than grass hats and sharpened poles to the aliens.

"How much time do you need to equip the entire company?" Nikolaos asked.

"With our recent losses—" Before Shen could finish calculating the sum in his head, he was interrupted by Central Officer Bradford. I snapped my head to Sergio, but I found him to be oddly calm, not that I would complain.

"The losses will be replaced with fresh recruits, doctor." He corrected the chief engineer.

"Wait, on whose authority is reinforcement ordered?" Nikolaos continued with the interruption.

"As acting commander, I notified both the inner and outer council of nations to provide 7 replacements for our 7 casualties before you arrived, sir." Bradford said, a little less confident than he was, now that he was reduced from the top office, "It is standard procedure to do so. They will arrive in 3 days." He looked like he was guilty of something. For a while, the silence seems to indicate so while the Greek commander of XCOM considered his words.

"Very well, then we will receive reinforcement. From now on, however, I would like direct control over this matter. Now, Doctor Shen?" Nikolaos continued the meeting.

"Our assembly lines are almost all in place, commander. So I would say, another week." Doctor Shen replied almost immediately, having found the time to calculate.

"Is there anything you could do to improve upon our designs?" Nikolaos pressed, "Can your team provide better protection to our soldiers?"

"Commander." Doctor Shen said, deep in thought, his eyes on the table, as if a miniature version of his workshop was there. It wasn't, "we are only a team of 10 engineers, and most of them deals in theory, if not heavy machinery. We don't have the proper facilities for it either. When the XCOM project was activated, we weren't expecting to go to war. We will need more of both things, and that means more funding and more manpower. You would need to approach the council of nations for that."

"Very well. Bradford, your turn." Nikolaos pushed the AAR to continue.

"We know what to expect now." Bradford said, though I was starting to doubt his belief, "There will be revisions in the standing orders. The Officer-in-Charge, Rashid Majid, is already drafting changes to training."

"Yes, sir." The now Corporal Rashid took it from there, "as you know, we use holographic projectors on the training deck to simulate missions. With the video feeds from Operation Devil's Moon, technicians believe they could simulate the aliens. Everyone will go through retraining with the new holograms, and I am also drafting new instruction material." At first, I was relieved that those ugly holographic terrorists would soon be in the recycling bin—I didn't need a reminder of the past. But then again, by now I had decided that the aliens would make far worse memories. I was under anaesthetics, and so there was only darkness in my sleep. The aliens made me wish I could sleep with anaesthetics every night, just when I could accept that I had seen the worse in war, criminal urban or otherwise.

The AAR ended soon afterwards, so that I could go back to my dearly beloved hospital bed. I was still hoping for anaesthetics when I got to it.


End file.
